


Chance (Can We Fall)

by euhemeria



Series: And, In Sign of Ancient Love, Their Plighted Hands They Join [68]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Coming Out, Denial of Feelings, Existential Crisis, F/F, Falling In Love, Loneliness, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2020-03-20 00:04:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 70,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18981091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euhemeria/pseuds/euhemeria
Summary: Shit,Fareeha thinks,I’m in love with her.Or,Ever so slowly, the relationship between Angela and Fareeha begins to shift.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [binarylazarus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/binarylazarus/gifts).



> tweet thread w emilia abt hc'ing angela and fareeha as squares who care too much abt their finances and never go out led to thinking abt them falling in love slowly while everyone else is out at like, karaoke night
> 
> so here we are

For her decisiveness, Ana Amari was chosen to join Overwatch, and later to help lead it.  Quick thinking and good instincts kept her and her team alive, brought them home, time and again, kept her on the field long past the age at which people began to suggest she retire to behind a desk.  It worked for her, that approach to things, always staying on her toes, always being vigilant, never becoming too set in any one way of doing things lest she need to suddenly make an adjustment to her plans.  It worked for her, until it did not.

People, when they see Fareeha, see all the ways in which she and her mother are similar.  Same skin, they say, same hair, same eyes and tattoo and determined expression.  To strangers, Fareeha is every inch her mother’s daughter, is the natural heir to the Amari legacy, is a soldier, a strong commanding presence, and a good shot to boot.  More often than not, they notice her last name before anything else about her.

Proud as Fareeha is of whom her mother was, what her mother did, that rankles, after a time.  She is her own woman, first, last, and always, has never followed in the steps Ana wanted for her, even if she has instead seen her mother as an example, a guiding presence.  When people look at Fareeha and see her mother instead, they miss a large part of who she is, what she values, what she, too, has given, to be in the position she is in.  The comparisons are favorable, and she tries to be polite, most of the time, but with the people with whom she serves, those who _ought_ to know her, better than anyone, she cannot help but be a bit curt, when they say such things.  She is her mother’s daughter, yes, but she is not her mother.

Maybe that is why Fareeha likes being around Angela so much. 

Doctor Ziegler is not what she expected, both as a person and as part of a collective, those former colleagues of her mother’s whom she never truly knew.  Only once does Angela compare Fareeha to her mother, and upon being corrected, she never raises the matter again.

Or, rather, she does not say Ana _would have been proud_ , to see Fareeha now.  It was a compliment, Fareeha knows, high praise from a woman who wants people to be proud of her, to look at her work and to say that she has done something right, and good, was intended well, coming from a person who had no parents to say the same to her, was what _Angela_ would have wanted to hear, from someone who knew her parents.  It was a compliment, and Fareeha appreciates the effort, she does, but she values honestly far more, and much prefers the next time Angela mentions Ana, many months later, a small smile at the corner of her mouth.

“You know,” Angela tells her, after Fareeha agrees that the ends rarely justify the means, and that the sacrifice in humanity necessary to achieve certain goals negates any good said success might reap, “Your mother would never have said that.”

A part of Fareeha is immediately on the defensive, so used to such things being an insult, being a way of finding her _wanting_ , but this is not one, clearly, from both the context and Angela’s tone, and she sees it for the compliment it is intended to be.

“It’s a good thing I’m not my mother, then,” Fareeha flashes her a smile, broad and happy, feeling lighter, suddenly.

It is tiring, to be so often compared to her mother, seen as someone she is not, and notable for what she lacks, or otherwise did not ask to have. 

(Even if she were not an Amari, Fareeha would like to think that she would still be the person she is, would still want to fight for justice, for a better life, would still like to do what is right and accept that she might have to make personal sacrifices in order to do so.  Most people do not see it that way, see her that way, they think her a product of her upbringing, or her DNA, think that because she is an Amari that she was meant to be a hero.  It erases all that she has done, in her life, all that she has worked to achieve.  She knows, of course, her name aided her at times, when she was up for consideration for a promotion in the military, but without the backing of her mother, it worked against her, too, and just because she had that advantage does not mean she did not nearly die, to be where she is today, does not mean that she did not give her arm, and years of her life, in service to others.  Yet, because she is an Amari, it was expected of her, not by her family, but by society at large.  Nothing she does will ever be enough.)

Angela does not see her that way.  Instead, Angela seems to notice all the myriad ways in which she and her mother differ, and she _likes_ them, likes Fareeha’s terrible puns, and that she enjoys leading, rather than simply seeing it as a responsibility, likes that they make a good team, and that many of their opinions on difficult moral subjects are similar, even if their methods of working towards the conclusions they reach diverge.

Angela seems to like, too, that Fareeha, unlike her mother, likes to plan for things, likes to have a schedule and to stick to it, even if that schedule is flexible and leaves room to try a good number of new things, and likes that she thinks often about her future and is prepared, as best she is able, for whatever comes next. 

In many ways, Angela is the same.  She is less tied down than Fareeha, less loyal to any person or place, but equally dedicated to ideals, and thinks that routine is a lovely thing to have to step back into, at the end of a long and chaotic day. 

The same, but not quite.

Still, it brings them together.  They eat at the same time, and while Angela makes the same meals for herself every time, seemingly rotating through a three week schedule, whilst Fareeha is always trying new things, there is that commonality of being together, the comfort of knowing that one reliably will have companionship at that hour in that place.

Most of the base is far more chaotic, or otherwise eats dinner at a more reasonable hour, not at 22:00 with Fareeha and Angela.  So it is the two of them, every night, closing out their days together, as they talk about whatever it is that comes to mind.  Most of the time, they keep things light, if only because so much of what they do is so stressful, but not and again their conversation drifts to deeper things, to morality, to purpose, to their childhoods, and trying to make sense of the people they became.

None of these things could easily be said in the daylight, nor around other people.

And this commonality brings them together in other ways, too.  When invitations to go out, all of them in Recall, together, go around, both of them refuse.  For Angela, it would be too great a deviation from her routine on a weeknight, and too stressful, too, to be in a public place, filled with strangers and worrying about the fact that their very presence there, the very fact that they are all being seen together, is in and of itself a violation of international law, the PETRAS Act, a law which, ostensibly, Angela agrees with, despite her participation in Overwatch following the Recall.  For Fareeha, going out for drinks is simply too expensive to justify, particularly when she does not, in fact, actually drink, and would only be wasting her money on overpriced bar food.

(This is not to say that Fareeha does not ever go to bars; with the right company, she has, even if she does not partake in drinking, but certainly her fellow members of Overwatch are not the right company.  Not one of them seems to know the meaning of moderation.)

At some point, about a year and a half into the Recall, by which point Fareeha and Angela know each other very well, Fareeha finds herself being asked a question.

“Why don’t you go with them?”  Angela shared, early on, that she just does not like the atmosphere of bars, or crowded restaurants, and certainly not _nightlife_ , that she finds the sights and sounds and smells overwhelming, after a long day’s work, and not at all relaxing.  “You’ve never mentioned.  At first I thought it was the drinking, but you were at the Christmas Party, weren’t you?”

(Angela was not, does not celebrate Christmas nor attend holiday parties masquerading as secular, but conveniently timed to Christmas every year.  As a Muslim, Fareeha understands, even if she herself quite enjoys the holiday spirit, _any_ holiday spirit.  In fact, Angela only knows she went because there was an offer extended that she skip, with Angela and Jesse, that she have a dinner with the two of them, and Fareeha, already signed up for Dirty Santa, had to decline.)

“It’s expensive,” Fareeha says, nose wrinkled, “And you’re right, after the first few times it’s really not that fun.”

A frown from Angela, then, sitting next to her on the common room couch, where they have decided to relax in their own way by watching the latest news.  Perhaps, now that Fareeha thinks about it, relaxing is not quite the right word for what they are doing.  Regardless, they are _unwinding_ together, not letting themselves be too caught up in anything said on the holovids.

“Surely you can afford it?”

From anyone else, the question might be impolite, but Angela recently helped Fareeha with the headache of international taxes, having had plenty of experience herself with filing in her own home country whilst abroad, and so she _knows_ Fareeha’s finances are in good order.  Good order is, in fact, an understatement, as Fareeha spent little in the military, and inherited quite a bit from her mother, who similarly never took a day’s vacation in her life, and therefore had quite the savings when she was declared dead.

“Well,” Fareeha says, “I mean yeah, I can.  But we aren’t exactly being paid much to be here, given that we’re violating international law, and hardly funded, so if I’m going to keep meeting my financial goals for myself then I can’t actually spend that much.”   

This, Fareeha learned from her father.  Unlike her mother, he actually _intended_ to save money, rather than simply having spent so much time in a warzone he had no opportunity to spend his earnings, as was the case with her mother.

(Although, now and again, Ana will use some of the money that was ‘left’ to Fareeha, small amounts discretely withdrawn from her bank account.  This is fair, Fareeha thinks, for it is her mother’s money, but it means that she cannot know how much of it ought to be counted among her own savings.  Some of it, surely, as she is the one paying the taxes, but she would have to actually speak with her mother in order to establish that, so it is all the more reason to save what it is she knows she for a fact has earned for herself.  Unfortunately, she can in no way tell Angela this, as no one else knows that Ana is alive, and Fareeha would prefer to keep it that way.  Less questions.)

“I see,” says Angela.  Unlike most of the people they work with, Fareeha believes it likely that Angela genuinely _does_ understand.  Talking about finances with most of their coworkers is pointless as the majority have none, or far too much, and in either case do not concern themselves overmuch with financial planning.

Silence, then, nothing to fill it but the news anchor on the holo talking about the twenty year trend towards stability in global weather patterns they have witnessed since the end of the Crisis, and so Fareeha decides to elaborate, “I’d like to settle down, eventually,” says she, “Have a kid, maybe a dog or two.  And kids are expensive, _especially_ if I send them to international school, like Mum did me.  So, you know, I have to plan ahead.”

“I can’t imagine keeping pets,” Angela says, instead of addressing the issue of _children,_ perhaps consciously avoiding it. 

“They’re nice to have around,” Fareeha says, thinks the appeal is rather obvious.  “We’re a little busy right now, for any of us to care for one properly, but in the future, when Overwatch is more established…”

“If,” Angela corrects.  If, and not _when_.

“ _If_ ,” Fareeha says, although it was not a slip of the tongue, for she genuinely does believe that one day, Overwatch will be reestablished formally.  “I just think I’d like a dog.  I’ve never had one, but I’ve always enjoyed other people’s, so when I _do_ have the time—”

“It isn’t the time commitment I have trouble understanding.”

“What, then?”  Angela does not dislike animals, Fareeha knows, for she has caught her keeping stale bread to give to the birds that frequent the pond just off-base.  So why would she not like pets?

“Pets don’t live very long, most of them.  I understand that they make people happy but—they _die_ , Fareeha.  Every time.  And I can’t imagine doing that to myself.  Why bring something into your life that will only end in pain?”

“Well,” Fareeha gets the sense that Angela is not just talking about pets, when she says this, but it is not something she is going to point out, nor a subject she feels fully equipped to handle.  “It’s worth it, I think.  It hurts when you lose them, of course, and badly, but while they’re there… I think they make you happy enough that eventually the pain fades, a bit, and the happy memories you’re left with outweigh the bad.”

“That hasn’t been my experience,” the spot between Angela’s eyebrows furrows as she says it, and she is looking away from Fareeha, slightly—more so than usual—eyes fixed on a point down and to the left of her.  Now, Fareeha is certain they are not talking about pets.  “When you lose things the wrong way—I don’t know that there’s enough for happy memories to be left with.”

(Fareeha does not really know how to respond to that.  Grief, she has known, but the deaths in her life have all been more or less expected, even Ana’s fake death, premature as it was, for it came after years spent in military service, and was a blow somewhat softened by the fact that they were already estranged, and not a part of each other’s daily lives.  Yes, there are a few people whom Fareeha has lost in the field, but it is not the same as what she knows happened to Angela’s parents, not nearly equivalent to watching one’s home destroyed and family slaughtered whilst still a child.  That, Fareeha knows she will never understand, and counts herself lucky for it.)

For a moment, there is silence again, and the news anchor begins detailing a developing situation in the Midwestern United States that Fareeha has a sinking feeling they will be stepping in to deal with in the near future.  Fareeha opens her mouth to say something, anything, but is just a moment too late, because Angela is speaking again already.

“But then again,” says she, regaining some semblance of optimism, even if Fareeha is very aware that it is forced, “I’ve never owned a pet.”

“I’ve had a few cats.”  Fareeha is surprised to find that she is not actually grateful for the change in conversation, for once.  As much as she normally hates dealing with difficult emotions, she and Angela seem to be a good fit for one another, when they talk about such things, seem to know what to say, such that while painful, conversations fall just on the right side of cathartic.

“That makes sense,” Angela says, “You’re the bigger risk taker, of the two of us.”

“Risk taker?”  What on earth does that have to do with owning pets?

“You ride a motorcycle,” Angela says, and then, voice growing almost teasingly clinical, “And as one of your healthcare providers, I really should tell you that it’s an unnecessarily dangerous method of transportation.”

“First,” Fareeha says, “Vehicular deaths have been steadily decreasing over the past decade and a half, largely due to the spread of _your_ technology, so—”

“—And it won’t help you if you’re decapitated!”

“—Barring a freak accident, I’ll be fine.  Second, I think the inherent risks of our job outweigh any concerns about me having a bike.  And I wasn’t asking about that, anyway.”

“Oh,” says Angela, much more tempered in her response, now, following the mention of Fareeha’s potential accidental death, and her own.  “What were you asking, then?”

“What does my mom having had cats when I was a kid have to do with me being a risk taker?”  Aside from the danger of having occasionally been scratched by her mother’s oldest and meanest cat, Fareeha does not think any part of pet ownership was in any way risky.

“I just meant that…” Angela pauses, as if she is considering the phrasing, turns her body to face Fareeha’s more, their knees bumping together, “If what you said is true, that sometimes, it gets less painful, the losing, and _sometimes_ you’re lucky enough that good memories overtake the bad ones, eventually—that’s a risk, isn’t it?  You have to bet that the pers—pet, that the pet you love is going to be worth the pain, in the end, that losing them is going to be endurable.  A risk, yes?”

“People aren’t really the same,” Fareeha says, because while Angela is _somewhat_ right, what she said does not quite fit with Fareeha’s view of things, could not.  Loving people is not a risk one can choose to take, or not, and thinking of it that way, as if caring about people were optional—Fareeha knows that is not true, and she knows that Angela must, on some level, know it too, or she would have chosen not to care about any of them here, in Overwatch, would be halfway around the globe still working with MSF.

“No?”

“We don’t _choose_ who we love, Angela,” she starts a bit too forcefully, adjusts her tone downwards, “Our family, our sexuality, any of that… it’s not like pets where you decide if you have one or not, and you don’t get to not care, even if you try.  For most people, there isn’t really a _choice_ involved, except for how you respond to what it is you feel.  You can’t stop loving people just because the thought of losing them is uncomfortable for you, or because you think it’s likely you’ll outlive them.  Even if you tell yourself that you don’t love someone, if you do, then when you lose them, it’s still… You’re still… No matter how much you want to not care about someone, you can’t really make it go away.  Not even when—”  When what, she does not know.

Angela’s hand on her knee, warmth of it felt through her jeans, and a gentle pressure, “Is that how you felt about Ana?”

Is it?  Fareeha does not know.  There is far too much, with her relationship with her mother, to ever untangle, far too much to even know where to begin to examine her feelings, or what is safe to say, what she is certain enough to put out in the world for someone else to hear.  Does she feel that she was forced to love her mother, by circumstance?  Does that matter, when, at the end of the day, Fareeha knows she _does_ love Ana, no matter what happens, for how long they fight or what her mother does, how difficult her life is made by Ana’s decisions?  Is this something she has been thinking, feeling, and not said because she could not bear, before now, to put it to words?

Surely not.

But perhaps, yes, Fareeha has thought about what it would have been, to have had another mother, if it would have made her happier.  Perhaps Fareeha has wished she did not love her mother, so that she could hate her, and move on from what has happened.  Perhaps she has wished, too, that she could release every negative thing she has ever felt from her mother, let go of the weight of it, holding her down, and finally feel light and good again, knowing only love.

(Perhaps it does not matter, too, because she may never know the answer, may not be able to learn it whilst her mother stays ‘dead,’ may be left in this limbo, unable to process anything or to speak about it with anyone, stuck in her own mind for lack of any outlet.  This, she knows she cannot say.)

“I don’t know,” she admits, hates how much smaller she sounds than she did a minute ago.  “My mother isn’t…. It’s complicated.  More than I can say,” An understatement, if ever she has made one.

“I’m sorry,” Angela says, and certainly sounds very contrite, “I shouldn’t have asked.  I only thought that—I felt the same after my parents died, wished that I could love them less, because then things wouldn’t hurt so much.  Then I felt guilty for having thought that, so when you said—if you _do_ feel that way, you aren’t alone.  That’s all I wanted to say.  I didn’t mean to—”

“Thank you,” Fareeha says, because hearing that is helpful, in its way, even if Angela cannot know what it is Fareeha is really grappling with, cannot understand what it is to have one’s mother come back from the dead, to be so desperately happy and unfathomably angry at once.  Angela does not need to understand, to have said the right thing, for it to help, for Fareeha to feel comforted by the knowledge that she is not alone in feeling as she is, even if their experiences are so very different.

So she says thank you, and does not want Angela to apologize further.

(There is, of course, another reason why she does not want the apology to continue: Fareeha does not believe it deserved, in fact feels herself rather guilty about all of this.  The empathy Angela thinks she has for her now is unearned, when Fareeha has in fact not experienced what it is Angela is talking about, has not truly lost her mother, and she _knows_ that, could tell Angela, who knew Ana too, could end this charade whenever she wanted to, and has simply chosen not to do so.  Why is she silent?  Does she not owe it to Angela, who has expressed remorse, herself, over her inability to save Ana, and the impact she assumes that had on Fareeha, to tell her the truth?  What loyalty has her mother earned, by lying, dying, leaving?  It weighs on Fareeha, that guilt, and she hates her mother all the more for putting her in this position.)

“I’m not very good at being comforting, I know,” Angela tells her, and the way she states that is not apologetic, only a fact, and one that Fareeha agrees with, even if she does not think that it is such a bad thing.  No one can be good at everything, after all, and Angela at least _tries_ very hard.  “But if you just want to talk about it—about her—I hope that you know that I’d be willing to listen.”

“Not right now,” Fareeha says, still unsure where she could possibly begin to explain her feelings about her mother, particularly given that Ana is _not_ dead.  “Maybe sometime, though.  I just don’t really know where I’d start.”

“That’s fine,” Angela tells her, and in fact seems a bit relieved that the conversation in question is not happening, after all.  Fareeha does not blame her.  “I’ll be here.”

“You’ve decided to stay, then?” This is news to Fareeha.  Even after a year, Angela has maintained, whenever anyone asks her, that she is only staying with Overwatch until they find another surgeon, is only here to ensure that her friends—her family—are not killed, before she is once again on her way.

(That she does not agree with what it is they are doing here, she does not need to say.  When the UN summoned most of the former officers to testify, in the investigation that preceding the formal outlawing of Overwatch activity, Angela was among the few who complied fully, who in fact advised that sanctions be placed on the organization, in some form or another, who thought that more oversight was necessary, and no one has forgotten.  But she is here, nonetheless, and after a tense first few months, most of the former members of Overwatch have forgiven her, even if she still believes the PETRAS Act to have been reasonable, because no matter what she says about Overwatch, it is evident that she still cares enough for its members to be here, and sometimes, that is enough.)

“For now,” Angela says, and it is not a commitment, exactly, but it is more than she has been willing to state up until this point.  “I don’t find anything we’ve done thus far to be particularly objectionable,” Fareeha recognizes this for the praise it is, even if Angela is perhaps not phrasing things as charitably as someone else might.  “As long as that doesn’t change—I don’t have any reason to leave, right now.”

“But you might, still?”  Fareeha just wants to be sure, before she gets her hopes up about things being more permanent.

“Naturally,” says Angela, as if it were that simple—and maybe she believes that it is, believes that she can force herself not to care about the people here long enough to leave them.  Even in the old Overwatch, Angela did not leave until they were disbanded, cannot choose not to feel an obligation to the family she has here, even if she tries to.  If she could, she would never have come here at all.  “But I think that—barring any unforeseen circumstances—I’ll be here for a while, at least.”

It surprises Fareeha, how happy that makes her feel, the thought that Angela will be staying, long-term.  Already, she knows, they have grown quite attached to each other, are very good friends, and yes, if asked, Fareeha would admit that she finds Angela attractive, and is perhaps nursing a crush, even if she is well aware that feeling that way about straight women rarely ends well, but she always thought she was keeping things casual, as much as she could, that she was prepared for the fact that Angela might leave at any moment.

Yet, if the relief she feels now is any indication, Fareeha has grown far fonder of Angela than she allowed herself to acknowledge, and was dreading the thought that her friend might leave, very much so.

 _Friend_ , for that is all Angela is, all she will ever be.  Angela has made it very clear that she is only attracted to men, and even then has little interest in dating anyone, has only ever wanted for things to be casual, fears letting herself be too tied down by any one person, or any one thing.

(Or, as Fareeha now knows, fears more than the restriction on her ability to leave whenever she likes the fact that she might lose the person she loves, thinks that by keeping things casual, she will spare herself heartache.  It is understandable, given all people whom Angela has lost in her life already, but it makes Fareeha sad, to think that Angela would deny herself the opportunity to love anyone because she does not want to be _hurt._ As if anyone were ever truly spared the pain of loss.)

Very abruptly, Fareeha realizes that she is, perhaps, a bit of a hypocrite.  For all that she has been telling Angela that it is impossible to deny attachment to another person, to shield oneself from loving them, only to be spared the pain of loss—Fareeha has been doing the same thing for several months now.

Of _course_ she was dreading the fact that Angela might leave, and of course she was hurt by the thought that Angela is making a concentrated effort to avoid being in love with anyone; her hurt was not only for Angela, but it was selfish, too.

 _Shit_ , Fareeha thinks, _I’m in love with her._

It makes sense, now that she thinks about, but she thought she knew better than this, to fall for a straight woman—especially her best friend—but what she told Angela was true, no amount of trying to not feel it will stop someone from being in love.  All that matters is what one _does_ with their feelings, how they choose to act on them.

And in this case—Fareeha cannot.  She knows that already.  Even were Angela _not_ straight, and not a coworker, she has said herself that she has only pursued casual relationships, in the past, and Fareeha’s feelings are already far from casual.

One cannot choose whom one loves, only how one responds to one’s own feelings Fareeha told Angela, and this is true.  Fareeha _cannot_ choose not to love Angela, now that she knows she does.  All she can choose is this: what she does about that.

And what can she do?  Only what is right.  Only—

“Fareeha?” Angela asks, “Are you—you’re not unhappy that I’m staying, are you?”

“No, no of course I’m happy!”  And she is, and more than.

“Are you sure?  You got quiet, so I thought that, maybe—”

“Angela,” Fareeha places a hand on her shoulder, which is enough for Angela to make eye contact with her, if only for a moment, “I’m glad you’re staying, I promise.  I’d miss you, if you left.  You’re my best friend, and I love being with you.”

For a moment, Angela searches her face, as if trying to determine whether or not Fareeha is telling the truth, and then, “Don’t let Jesse hear you say that.”

“What?”  Surely Angela and Jesse are not—

“He declared himself my best friend years ago, and I don’t think he’d like to be replaced.”

“Okay,” Fareeha says, “You’re my _very good friend whom I care for deeply_ , and whom I am very, _very_ happy to have stay in my life.  Better?”

“Much,” Angela says, and clearly amused, before she turns serious, again, “And you don’t have to worry, really.  I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s all I could ask for,” Fareeha says, and it is.

She would never ask for more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was gonna release this tmrw night bc i thought sundays were a nice day to post fic but... its the first day of pride month... so gay rights!

In Angela’s life, things tend to be very black and white.  Either they are correct, or they are incorrect, they are successful, or they are failures, they are moral, or they are immoral.  She knows, of course, that the world is not so simple, that there is a good deal of nuance to be missed, in this approach, but it is a hard one for her to shake, and so often the people who imply that her view of the world is overly simplistic are the same people who use ‘nuance’ as a cloak for doing things which most anyone would agree are wrong.  Too often people have told her “One could argue that…” but the conclusion she inevitably reaches is that no, no one could not.

Ana always insisted to her that if only she would loosen control, a little, on her technology, let people expand upon it, they could save so many more lives.  All of her proposals _sounded_ reasonable enough—rounds of Angela’s technology to heal, and regular rounds to harm, still entirely separate entities—but Angela knows well where that got them: with Moira’s hands on her research, in order to reverse Angela’s tech to harm.

( _One hand gives…_ and the other took from her.)

Moira could be so very absolute too, in her own way.  Oh, she argued that things were just a little too strict, that they slowed progress, and all she wanted was a little expedience, but time has proven Angela right: Moira did not want a more _nuanced_ approach to the way things were done, did not want to reexamine ethical guidelines, she wanted them thrown away entirely.  There is little more black and white than that.

So these days, Angela tries not to take it too personally, when people criticize her thinking.  Yes, she can be very, very unwilling to budge, and yes, she makes quick judgements as to what is right, and what is wrong, and yes, because people are never quite so simple as she would like to think, that makes her a hypocrite, at times—but they are all of them hypocrites, at one point or another.  All that matters, to her, is that she strives, always, to do what is right, and maybe she tries a bit harder than most people, or falls short more often, because her definition of what is right is stricter, but that cannot possibly be a bad thing, can it?

It can.  Of course it can.  As much as Angela would like to believe that trying hard to do what is right is _always_ what is best, and having a very strict moral code is good, and proper, and therefore should not have undue consequences for the people who follow such a code, even she has to admit that lately, it has made her life very hard.

(Unless someone asks her directly, Angela does not discuss her religion with many people—yet it is impossible to deny how it has shaped her.  Every person has the potential to be perfect, she knows, so long as they follow the Mitzvot.  Doing so will not spare one suffering in this life, but it is what is best for the world as a whole.  In part, she believes this, even though there are Mitzvot she disagrees with, or ones she has failed to follow; what is more important to her is not the number 613, but the idea that one can _always_ be perfect, if only they try a little harder.  So she tries, and she tries, and she tries, and always, she comes up short.  By now, one would think she would have grown used to it, the failing, but she never does.  Always, it stings, and always, she picks herself up and tries again.  She can do better, be better.  The guilt follows her wherever she goes.)

By joining Overwatch again, Angela has put herself in a very difficult position.  She does not believe that what they do is right, fighting, does not think that to kill, except when it directly saves a life, is ever justified, and so much of their work is indirect at best.  What good does it do, to end the life of a single Talon grunt, if their Council still operates, still sends more and more into the field?  Nothing has been stopped, and the only result is the loss of a life, one that—probably—had little role in deciding where and how Talon would strike, may not even have known what it was they had a role in.

It is wrong, to kill, would be better only to heal, and to heal innocents.  By saving her teammates, all Angela guarantees is further slaughter, and every time they kill, it is on her hands.  Every life they take after she saves them is a life that might not have been lost, otherwise, is her fault, in that way.  When she saves soldiers, all Angela does is perpetuate the same violence which took from her her parents.

(This, too, is part of the reason why she is so reluctant to return to true lab work.  Although she works to improve and refine her existing technology, she has not invented anything new in some time, is afraid to.  Everything that Moira has done with the technology she adapted from Angela’s own work is, Angela knows, her own fault in a way.  Each of those atrocities could not have been committed if she had controlled her technology better, or if she had never invented it at all.  At what point is the cost of what she invented too great to justify what it has accomplished?  She cannot say for certain, but the guilt—already, it is too much of a burden.)

Yet, despite how wrong she believes it is, being here among Overwatch again, working with soldiers, with people whose primary skillset is to kill, Angela cannot bring herself to leave.

At first, she told herself it was temporary, answering the Recall.  She came because her friends were here, her family, or the closest thing to it she has, and if they had tied for wont of a doctor, she could never have forgiven herself.  When she rejoined them, she said it was only until they found another surgeon, someone else to keep them alive in ways that sonic technology and orbs of harmony cannot, and she believed that such would be the case. 

If she really were a good person, truly stuck to her principles, then it would be easy enough to leave, when the time came, because these are people she ought not to love, who do things she ought not to tolerate, have made an art form of it, growing ever better at killing. 

Instead, she has stayed, is still staying.  For all that she _ought_ to hate the people here, if she truly were adherent to her principles, if the world truly were so black and white as she likes to believe, she knows that she does not.  They are good people, she cannot help but feel, even if they have done bad things, and their intentions are good also. 

Some of them, she could excuse herself feeling this way about.  Torbjörn, she has known since she was a child, and she has spent so much of her life around Reinhardt and Jesse, in a high pressure environment, that feeling bonded to them was inevitable, surely, and she has similar excuses for being fond of Genji, of Lena, of Mei, but that is all any of it is, excuses.

After all, she finds herself fondest of Fareeha, her affection towards whom is in no way justifiable.

If there is anyone among them Angela ought to hate, it is Fareeha, who is career military, and always has been, who was not forced to join, did not sign up during the Crisis, is not working to redeem herself for anything, but is instead a soldier by choice, and one who went on to join a paramilitary extra-judicial “security” force, at that.  Yet of all of them, it is Fareeha who has become most dear to her. 

It is impossible for Angela to think Fareeha a bad person, despite all of the ways in which their philosophies are irreconcilable.  At first, she thought she would, was polite only by rote, and did not seek to engage with Fareeha any more than she had to, thought that she would do only what she must to keep Fareeha alive, and avoid her otherwise—it is almost funny, looking back.  Fareeha, of course, made herself unavoidable, did her best to be warm, and friendly, because she is that way with everyone, and somewhere along the way became warmer and friendlier towards Angela in specific; why, Angela cannot be certain, even now.

Was it because of training?  They were paired together early on, because of a mutual ability to fly, and therefore had to spend more time with one another than with most other people, countless hours put in to ensure that they could think and move as one.  Maybe, but Fareeha has had a number of hours one on one with Jesse, too, practicing to avoid his shots.

Was it because they happen to have similar schedules, and simply have had more opportunity to grow close to one another?  That is possible.  Certainly, familiarity with Fareeha helped Angela to open up to her, in the beginning, and seeing each other every day means that they saw each other in _all_ states of being, at their worst and at their best. 

Was it because Angela was more reluctant than anyone else, to rejoin Overwatch?  Fareeha is a shrewd commander, and strategist, and Angela would not put it past her to have made a point to befriend Angela, in the beginning, if only to increase the chances that she would stick around.  That cannot be her motivation any longer, for when Angela announced, two weeks ago, that she would be staying, Fareeha seemed genuinely surprised, but their relationship has otherwise been quite unchanged by the revelation.  They are, in fact, currently seated on the same couch as they were at the time, whilst the rest of their comrades are once again out enjoying “team bonding exercises,” as Jesse calls getting very drunk and then trying to bowl.

Perhaps it was none of those things, or perhaps a combination of all of them.  What matters is this: given the time and opportunity to get to know Fareeha, Angela has found that they are, in the end, quite alike.  For all that they disagree about methodology, about the best way to accomplish their goals, what they want is the same: to protect others, to spare them harm.  Both of them only want to do what is good for everyone else, even at the expense of their own life and happiness, and feel a good deal of guilt when it seems that they have failed.

(One might say similarly of most members of Overwatch, but there is a sameness to Fareeha and Angela’s motivations that goes beyond that, and into something else that she cannot quite put words to.) 

Fareeha feels genuine regret for each life that she takes, in the same way Angela does, sees it as a necessity, at times, to save more lives, but agrees, too, that a better world would need no soldiers at all.  Few enough of the others could admit to that.  Yet she is nonetheless proud of her accomplishments, her job, for she feels what she does is right, and despite her guilt, she can sleep, most nights, knowing that. 

Angela thinks she must envy Fareeha, for that, because she has no other word for the strange emotion she feels when Fareeha smiles, and laughs, jokes as if they did not regularly see the worst in humanity.  She takes their work seriously, of course, is appropriately somber when things go awry, and does not make light of anything about their work, but still, she seems capable of _happiness_ in a way that Angela often feels that she herself is not.  What Angela feels when Fareeha expresses such positive emotions is not negative, in any way, but if it is not envy, what else could it be?

But, then, Angela knows that Fareeha is not so happy as she seems, at times, knows that she puts on a brave face for everyone else, and that complicates things further.

After all, were Fareeha truly so happy, she would not ask Angela a question like she does tonight:

“Are you ever lonely?” Fareeha asks her, apropos of nothing, the two of them seated on opposite ends of the couch, leaning against the arms, feet resting near one another’s hips.  It is their night off, both of them, and they know their morning appointments will be cancelled when everyone else is inevitably hungover, so they are making the most of it, the two of them relaxing in the common room, eating sweet things and reading together in relative silence, one or the other of them occasionally mentioning something interesting from their respective texts—a medical journal for Angela, and a novel for Fareeha, the type Angela would never touch, which is very literary and has won any number of awards.

Angela blinks, tries not to frown, looks up to make eye contact with Fareeha, “Do I seem lonely?”

(She is, is the answer, and often, but she tries not to think about it too much, because hers is the sort of loneliness that one cannot repair.  Because she grew up orphaned, she rather suspects that she will _always_ feel alone, on some level, even when she is surrounded by people she loves, and so there is no use in dwelling on it, because ruminating on that which she cannot change has never done her any good.  In any case, she doubts that this is the kind of lonely that Fareeha means.)

“I didn’t mean—” Fareeha sits up, a little, straightens herself against her end of the couch, “We’ve been with Overwatch for more than a year now,” she starts again, and Angela is immediately certain from her tone that she is not going to like where this is going, because as much as she trusts Fareeha, as much as Fareeha is probably the person she is _most_ comfortable talking about her feelings with, she knows, too, that she is no good at providing advice, or comforting people, and it seems that this conversation is probably going to end in one or both.  Presumably, Fareeha is asking Angela this because she has worked with Overwatch before, in which case, she is in for disappointment: Angela’s feelings, having been with Overwatch previously, are that it is a mistake, to be involved, will only end in pain for all of them, even as she finds herself here, again. 

“We have,” Angela is carefully neutral as she says this.

A frown from Fareeha, and Angela wonders if that was the wrong thing to say, already, “I guess it’s just now hitting me that this is the way things are going to be for the indefinite future.”

“The way things are going to be?”  Angela does not follow.

“Yeah,” Fareeha says, “Just… existing separately from the rest of the world, I guess?”

Now Angela feels guilty, “I know I’ve said it’s nice, having these evenings with you, but if you want to go out with everyone else, then—”

“No!” Fareeha’s vehemence surprises her, “I didn’t mean that.  I mean, I probably could stand to get out more in general but this isn’t—I definitely don’t feel lonely, when I’m with you.”

“Oh,” says Angela, and then, a bit belatedly, “I definitely don’t feel lonely around you, either.”

(In fact, Angela doubts that _anyone_ could feel lonely while around Fareeha, she is the sort of person who has a way of understanding others, and uses that natural understanding to build a rapport.)

“I should hope not,” Fareeha says, and then there is silence, between them.

“So,” Angela prompts, when it does not seem that Fareeha is particularly intent on continuing, “You don’t necessarily want to go out more, but you feel lonely?”

(This is the sort of nuance that Angela is _very_ bad at.  She has a hard enough time naming and understanding her own emotions, let alone anyone else’s.)

Fareeha sets her holopad aside, on the coffee table, says, “Well I guess it’s more—isolated?”

_That_ is an emotion Angela knows well, but still, she needs a bit more clarity, “In Overwatch or…?”

“No, no not here.  I just feel like…” A pause, while Fareeha seems to think very intently, “It’s difficult, being part of an illegal organization.  We don’t get to really meet people, and I know the rest of them are out but—that’s irresponsible, and it’s not the same, anyway, because they’re not talking to anyone new, just spending time with themselves.”

Well, Angela can agree that most of their compatriots are irresponsible, certainly, and that their attempts at passing themselves off as civilians are conspicuous, at best, and heavily reliant on the intoxication of everyone _else_ in the dive bars they visit.  In fact, she understands much of what Fareeha is feeling, even if she herself feels isolated wherever she goes, and does not think it has much to do with Overwatch, but, “What brings this to mind?”

“It’s the book I’m reading.  It’s supposed to be about some universal human experience, and the quest for connection.  How we build relationships across our lifetime but—I don’t know.  Lately I feel like we live so separately from the rest of the world that I can’t—it’s hard to remember what it’s like, I guess, on the outside, which makes it harder to imagine myself meeting and connecting with someone else, outside of all this.”

Normally, Fareeha seems happy to be a member of Overwatch, seems to get along well with everyone, but now Angela wonders if maybe there was something that she missed.  “Are you not—are you unhappy here?”

“I’m not unhappy,” Fareeha says, and she _seems_ honest enough, “It’s just, you know, there are people I miss, from before.  Kinds of relationships this environment isn’t exactly conducive to.”

Oh.  Angela knows a thing or two, about leaving people behind, has had to do so all too often in her life.  Since she first lost her entire hometown, during the Omnic Crisis, she has spent her life leaving people behind, never quite allowing herself to make too deep a connection, lest she be hurt, later, when things inevitably end.

(With the first Overwatch, she made a mistake, allowed herself to begin to trust people, to believe that they would always be around, and she lost them, all of them, when Overwatch fell.  Her relationship with Jesse is still recovering from his decision to leave.  Afterwards, she swore she would not do so again, joined MSF, where she spent six to nine months in any one place, at most, spent the last five years never spending too long with any one group of people, lest she get attached.  Yet she is here, again, now, has once again fallen into Overwatch’s orbit because she longed to return to the people about whom she cares, cannot keep herself away.  Yes, she knows about the power of loneliness, the ways in which isolation drives one to do things one never would otherwise—in her case, rejoining Overwatch—if only to make it stop.)

Perhaps this is why Fareeha has asked her, her experience with as much, “It can be hard,” says she, “And I wish I had a better answer for you.  Uprooting your whole life isn’t something most people are comfortable with, and if I’d really been able to content myself with it, I don’t think I’d be here now.  I’ve tried to tell myself I don’t need anyone else, and certainly I have more experience being on my own than most people, but it isn’t true.  If you miss Egypt too much—”

“I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing,” Fareeha interrupts. 

“Sorry,” Angela says, but sorry does not _quite_ capture it.  Heat floods her face, both embarrassment and a bit of shame, at having admitted something so deeply personal when it was not at all relevant.  “What did you mean, then?”  Hopefully, Fareeha will forget about what she said.

“I meant, uh, a different kind of relationship.”

“You mean…?”  Angela is almost entirely certain what Fareeha means, but she does not think she wants to deal with the embarrassment, if she is somehow wrong again.

“A girlfriend, yeah.  I haven’t been on a date in almost two years.”  Now Fareeha is embarrassed, too, if Angela is reading her body language right.

“Oh,” says Angela, “If this is about sex then I’m not—well, I’m not going to be much help.”  In many regards, Angela has been very lonely in her life, but she honestly does _not_ miss having an active sex life, has, entirely by choice, not had sex in about a decade.

A frown from Fareeha, apologetic, “Are you not interested in—I don’t mean to overstep, that is, I just, uh—”

“I didn’t say that,” Angela says, because it is easier than addressing the question of whether she is _interested_ in sex or not.  She is not really sure, for herself, what the answer to that is; certainly the past decade has hardly been conducive to wanting sex, between the stress preceding Overwatch’s fall, her feelings in the aftermath, and then her living and working conditions in MSF—let alone the past year and a half spent here, in Overwatch, where she has consciously avoided sleeping with any of the men, for a variety of reasons unique to the individuals, and in general because it would be bad for workplace dynamics. 

(Or, so she tells herself.  But as with so many things, where she says something is absolutely wrong, there is, in fact, a bit more nuance than that, and she may make a liar of herself yet.  If, she thinks, she had the sort of stability with and trust in any of them as she does in Fareeha, steady and confident, and the easy rapport, then _maybe…._ But they would need, too, to respect her desire for independence, her unwillingness to commit forever to staying here, and she does not think any of them could.)

“Well,” Fareeha says, sounding a bit relieved, “I’m glad you weren’t uncomfortable with the implication, but I wasn’t actually intending to ask about sex.”

_Good_.  “You weren’t?”  For some reason, the prospect of discussing sex with Fareeha makes Angela nervous, in a way she cannot quite place.  She does not think of herself as being a prude, or in any way homophobic, but still—she does not want to think about Fareeha having sex with anyone, for whatever reason.

“No I—I really meant to ask—You seem so _content_ with only having short term relationships, I guess, and I just…  Well, if this is going to be my life, then I think I’d better get used to hooking up.”

“You shouldn’t if you aren’t comfortable with it.”  By this point, both of them have sat up fully, and Angela moves closer to Fareeha, now, bridges the several feet of gap on the couch between them to take one of Fareeha’s hands in hers.  “It isn’t a good thing, pushing yourself to have sex with people in a way that makes you unhappy, just because you think that’s the only way to stop feeling lonely.”

(Angela would know.  Before she transitioned, when she was still young—too young, now that she looks back on it, still a teenager the first time—she had sex with a number of boys and, later, men, because she thought that if she did, then she would feel less alone in the world, and better about herself, thought that if they were attracted to her body, as it was, then she could learn to see what it was they liked, and learn to accept the inevitability of becoming a man.  Almost all of the men were gay, and none of them knew she was really a woman, but she thought that straight men could never, would never love her, and so she locked herself into relationships where she knew she could never really be what her partners wanted, because she thought it was the only sort of love she could get.  To this day, it is something too painful to talk about, the way she thought of herself, and is probably at least part of the reason why it terrifies her, admitting to anyone that she is trans, because she feels so certain that people will look at her and see only a man pretending to be a woman, because she cannot shake, still, the feeling that she is always, always acting at being _something,_ that she is being fundamentally dishonest with the people around her about who she is, and that they will see her that way, too.)

“I know,” Fareeha says, “Trust me, I don’t intend on rushing into anything that I’m not ready for, I guess, but—well, I am, uh, lonely,” Angela gets the sense that Fareeha means such both literally and euphemistically, “And I just thought—You’ve said before that you only do casual relationships.  So maybe you’d, I don’t know, have advice or something?”

“Ah,” says Angela, and does not remove her hands from Fareeha’s but wishes she could, discretely, because she feels a bit awkward, now, having tried to be comforting and evidently having given entirely unnecessary advice.  Foolish of her to assume that Fareeha, who is so much better at understanding people and emotions than she, would have the same sorts of problems.  “Well, I’m afraid I don’t have much good news for you, there.”

“No?”  This seems to surprise Fareeha.

“No.  When we talked about what you wanted for your future—a spouse, a child, a stable life—it’s something I want too.  Well, minus the dog, maybe, but I just don’t think…”  She trails off, not really sure how to put to words all the reasons why she feels that settling down would be a terrible idea, or where to even begin.

“I didn’t know you wanted kids,” again, Fareeha sounds surprised, but for this Angela does not blame her.  She does not see herself as particularly mothering either.

“Well,” says she, “You can want something and recognize that, objectively, it isn’t a good idea.”

“You don’t think you’d make a good mom?”

“I’d only want to raise a child with a partner,” says she, “I don’t exactly have the most experience with being part of a family.”

“But you said you also wanted—”

“I know, but it isn’t that simple.  My job comes first, and it’s hard to find someone who’s okay with that—the fact that, if I felt like I wasn’t doing enough where we were, I’d move halfway around the globe to continue helping people, whether they came with me or not.”  Not to mention the fact that most people who talk about settling down and having children want one biologically, and even if Angela wanted to, she cannot get pregnant.  “It isn’t fair to expect… Most people’s first priority in a marriage is their partner.  They expect, too, that they’ll come first in their spouse’s life.  I wouldn’t—I can’t set my work aside, just because someone I care about wants me to.  So marrying someone… I don’t think I could be what my partner wanted me to be, given that they wouldn’t ever be my first priority, and I don’t want them to put me first, knowing that I’m never going to be able to reciprocate that.”

“I see,” Fareeha says, and it seems, in fact, like she does, given that she does not question Angela’s logic in the slightest.  “So you’d need a partner who also had some other first priority in life.”

“Theoretically, yes.  But I think in practice… If our first priorities were too different, when would we ever see each other?  How could we possibly get along?  There isn’t much I—if the thing they put before our relationship was something like pursuing a career in _music_ , I don’t think I could accept that.  I’d need for them to have a similar goal to mine, I think, because there are certainly some things that aren’t on par with saving lives, in my eyes, and I don’t want them to feel like I’m belittling their interests.”

(Even though she would, absolutely, think less of their goals in life.)

“Okay,” Fareeha says, “I think I can understand that.  But if that’s what you actually want—then you are lonely?”

“Well,” Angela already was not quite making eye contact with Fareeha, was looking instead at the tattoo on her cheek, but now she finds herself looking at the coffee table, Fareeha’s holo sitting on it face up, the name of the book which got them into all this on display.  “I _am_ lonely.  I didn’t say I wasn’t.  It just isn’t important.”

A frown from Fareeha, “Isn’t being happy important?”

“I’m not unhappy,” well, she is happier here than anywhere else, in any case, and that is why she has stayed, “I can be lonely, sometimes, romantically and not feel like—not feel unfulfilled.  I’m not unsatisfied, here.  There are people who care about me, and whom I care about and—that’s enough, isn’t it?”

“I guess so.”  And then, brightening somewhat, “So you’re saying we make you content?  High praise, from you.”

“I suppose,” Angela says, unwilling to say just how much more than _content_ she feels, around Fareeha in specific, lately.  “When the lot of you aren’t giving me tension headaches, then yes, you do make my life better.”

“Aww,” Fareeha says, voice teasing, “You do care about us.”

“Yes,” Angela says, and she looks back, again, at Fareeha’s face, “I do.  I’m happy here, and I hope that—I hope you won’t be too lonely, because I’d like for you to be happy, too.”

In fact, Fareeha is a good deal of the reason why Angela is happy here, and she knows all the reasons why this should not be so, knows that attachments to people are dangerous, and she swore off of them, knows that she dislikes soldiers, and that they are generally not good people, knows that she is still lonely, on some level, and that having a good friend should not make that go away.  Yet, Fareeha makes all those things so easy to ignore.

Things are good, or they are not.  Relationships are worth pursuing, or they are not.  People make Angela happy, or they do not.  It should be that simple, it should.  But the world does not fit Angela’s ideals, not always, and despite all the things which tell Angela that this friendship they have between them is a bad idea, despite all the things that tell her it should make her miserable, if not now then later—Angela wants this, wants Fareeha in her life.

In Angela’s very black and white world, Fareeha’s intrinsic goodness is enough to outweigh all other concerns.

She hopes she can be enough for Fareeha, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> angela: if a man were like fareeha, id date him  
> angela: only uses gender neutral pronouns to describe her hypothetical future spouse  
> angela: i am very straight
> 
> well... she will realize that she is also interested in women soon enough. actually between chapters of this fic bc [i already wrote a fic abt that](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14800749), but like. shes going to figure it out. and later in this fic actually come out to fareeha so. progress will be made! 
> 
> anyway, happy pride!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hewwo... here is another chapter... in which things happen, i guess

Fareeha is a confident woman, one who knows what she wants and works towards her goals until she reaches them.  When her mind is set on something, nothing and no one can dissuade her, as Ana learned the hard way.  Whatever the cost, no matter what she must sacrifice, Fareeha always does what it takes to do what is right, and to achieve her objectives.  In the past, this singlemindedness has served her well, has seen her rise quickly through the ranks in the military, be chosen as a test pilot for the Raptora system, and finally, _finally_ be chosen to lead her own strike team in the newly reformed Overwatch.

Her ambition and determination have never led her astray except—here, now.

Few enough times have her dreams truly been impossible things, and, indeed, even in the times she has reasonably believed such, she has often miraculously been proven wrong.  She and Ana may not be reunited yet, it is true, may not be reconciled, but it is a possibility, like she always wanted for it to be, and that is more opportunity than most have to make amends with her dead mother.  Even Overwatch came back, giving her the opportunity to achieve the childhood goal of joining its ranks and becoming a true hero.

Yet this?  This is different.

For the first time in Fareeha’s life, she is realizing that what she wants might _truly_ not be possible, that her dreams for a future life, a house, a wife, a child, might be incompatible entirely with her dream of leading Overwatch.

(There is also, of course, the impossibility of leading such a life with the person to whom Fareeha presently finds herself attracted, but that is another matter entirely.  A crush—even love—Fareeha can set aside.  She has always respected others enough to listen to her when they say no, and Angela _has_ said as much, if not in as many words, made it clear months ago when Fareeha first flirted with her that no, she is straight, and Fareeha has accepted that, she has.  That is not what troubles her, for she is happy with her relationship with Angela as it is, values her best friend as she is, and would not dare to ask again for something more.  Not now, not ever.)

Perhaps she should have realized this sooner.  Who among those at Overwatch is happily married?  Only Torbjörn, and he had his wife, and several children, before Overwatch was ever founded.  The rest of them are all single or—like Lena—either unable or unwilling to truly commit to their relationships, not formally, knowing that what their job demands of them would not be fair to a lover.  Any one of them could die at any time, and they spend days, weeks, sometimes even months away, travelling the world on various missions and stationed at various watchpoints.  It is not fair to expect any partner to wait for them, after that.  It is unfair, too, to thrust upon anyone the secrecy they have accepted, working within Overwatch post-Recall, the nature of their job currently being such that they are, all of them, fugitives, and lead the sort of lives that correspond to such a status.  Who would want to be roped into such a thing?

(Also, there is the emotional toll, one she expects none of them consciously acknowledge.  How could anyone but another soldier understand what it is they have seen, what it is they have done?  How could anyone care for them in the way they need—and how could any of them trust themself to meet a civilian partner’s needs?  To do so seems impossible.)

Perhaps she should have known this because she saw this same drama play out, years ago and a continent away, when her own parents divorced.  Her parents loved each other—maybe even _love_ each other, present tense—and her father tried his hardest to be there for her mother, to be understanding, to support her as best he could.  Yet they are divorced, and they have been for many, many years now. 

Ana had not the time for a career and a family, had to choose between her commitment to Overwatch and her commitment to her husband and child.  For her, the choice was obvious and Fareeha—she understands, she does. 

After all, she would choose the same, if she had to.

Will she have to?

For the past two weeks, she has been thinking about it, has almost let the thoughts of it consume her.  If what Angela said is true, about goals, and about partners, and about the terrible unfairness of it all, to know that one is more devoted to a pursuit than to their lover, whilst their lover cares for them most of all…

Fareeha thinks she is the same sort of person.

(Her mother was too.  The problem was never that she and Sam did not get along, but rather that she felt what she asked was unfair to him, and so she pushed him away—whether he wanted her to do so or not.  Another unfairness, to have so disregarded his choice in the matter, but it is one Fareeha can do little to ameliorate.  She thinks she herself would do the same, if she thought it would make her partner happier, long term, has inherited her mother’s penchant for self-sacrifice, and flair for the dramatic.)

How can Fareeha hope to find someone who is as loyal as herself, but who simultaneously holds bettering the world as a higher priority than their relationship, enough so that they would understand, if Fareeha had to do what was best for the world before doing what was best for them?  The expectation is entirely unreasonable.  After all, if she does so, then what if her partner’s own goals pull them elsewhere?  What would they have in common?  When would they see each other?  Such an environment is not conducive at all to raising a child, this she knows.

(Her father has his own goals, too, in Canada, never put her mother above them.  He is an activist, fights for the rights of their people, and he never once considered abandoning that work in order to relocate to be nearer to Ana.  Perhaps this was the real deal-breaker, not a sense of unfairness on her mother’s part but a lack of connection, a physical distance between the two o them, torn apart by circumstance and duty in a way they never anticipated upon first meeting, long before the Crisis ever began.  This, too, she might understand, and could see herself being guilty of, a failure to sacrifice her own goals in order to accommodate her partners’.)

So maybe Angela is right.

She did not say, of course, that she meant Fareeha, when discussing her view of relationships, did not even imply that Fareeha ought to feel the same way, but Fareeha feels, and strongly, that they are the same sort of person, for all of their superficial differences, and that, ultimately, she _would_ have reached the same conclusion independently, if given enough time.

It was, after all, her dedication to her career which ended her prior relationship, back in Egypt.  Her work hours were unacceptable to her girlfriend, whose hints at becoming more serious Fareeha misinterpreted as wanting a proposal, rather than wanting Fareeha to be _home_ more often. 

If another relationship had ended like that one, Fareeha would like to think that she would have realized for herself what the problem was.  Who could possibly be more important than the rest of the world?  Whose life could she ever put above her work?  No love is that great, surely, and Fareeha does not _want_ to be so consumed by a relationship, in any case.

For the most part, Fareeha is happy with whom she is, and what she has accomplished.  Why would she _want_ to give that up for a relationship?  Why would anyone?

Yet, she cannot deny that most people do make sacrifices, when they are in love. 

So maybe love is not right for her, either. 

Maybe.

But she struggles to accept that entirely, deep down, struggles to imagine what her life will be like if she never finds love. There are things that she wants, in life, that she does not think she can have, as a single woman.  Love, yes, even if not all consuming, a person who feels like home, someone with whom she can vent her troubles, confide her secrets, a friend and a lover both, who supports her and whom she supports in turn.  A child, too, and she thinks this is best done with a partner, given the dangerous nature of her job—if anything were to happen to her, then her child would need another parent, and although she does not doubt her father would step in, if it were necessary… that is not at all the same as being raised by someone with the time and energy to spend their entire day with a child, she imagines.  And there is, of course, the matter of sex.

Like many people, although not all of them, certainly, Fareeha rather _likes_ sex, and would like to resume having it at least somewhat regularly.  Although it is all well and good for other people to do so without a long-term partner, she finds that she only enjoys sex with people whom she trusts deeply, be they a romantic partner or a very close friend.  And, unfortunately, she is at present rather low on options in both departments.

Most of the other women here are too young for Fareeha, by her own standards, not yet settled into themselves, or in the same phase of life as her.  Ideally, if she were to have a partner, they would be interested in a serious relationship, because really, Fareeha _meant_ to have a child a year or two ago, and once she finds someone she would like to move rather quickly, on that front.  Already, she is four years older than her mother was at the time of her birth.

And as for fuck buddies, well…

Fareeha thinks she has exhausted her options there.

(She and Aleks had a good thing going, for a little while, but gradually both of them realized that they had far stronger feelings for other people, and so things ended.  Amicably, of course, as it always was only sex, and they _both_ found themselves falling in love with other people, but still.  One break-up with a person who is now, following her promotion to strike leader, her subordinate, is _more than enough_ , Fareeha thinks.  To try again with anyone else would be to invite trouble.)

Which brings her back to civilians—a difficult prospect, at best.  How could she hope to share a life with any of them, when she cannot be honest about what her job is?  How could she even begin to find a lover whose ambitions are equal to her own?

So, maybe, it is best that she accepts that, for the time being, she will be alone.

Maybe.

Despite the fact that, on paper, asking the woman one is secretly in love with for romantic advice is a _horrible_ idea, it is exactly what Fareeha finds herself doing, one Thursday evening, the two of them involved in a rather intense game of Risk.

“I know you think you’re not good at giving advice,” she begins, “But—”

“I’m _not_ ,” Angela insists, consolidating her troops in Eastern Europe to avoid Fareeha moving in through Russia and challenging her rather firm control on the continent.

“Right, okay, _but_ , it pertains to your life, so…”

This at least actually does make Angela look up from the game board, if only briefly.  “My life?”

“You remember, a few weeks ago, when everyone was bowling, and we talked about—contentment?”  That is not, exactly, what they discussed, but what other word would be better to summarize the conversation, Fareeha does not know.

“No,” Angela says, “Unless you mean—please tell me this isn’t something else about relationships.”

Fareeha sets down the cannon in her hand to rub nervously at the back of her neck with one hand, “Well, I _could_ say that, but I’d be lying.”

“I told you then, I’m really, _really_ not the best person to ask.”  And she did have a good reason for saying so, given her own relationship status and view on relationships, but the problem is that it is that exact view Fareeha wants to hear more about, now, to see if somehow she can unlock the riddle to being satisfied with loneliness, to contenting herself to a future with her work, and her friends, and maybe someday many years down the line, a wife, but far too late to have a child, and raise a family.

“Normally, I’d agree,” Fareeha says, “But you really are my closest friend here, and—”

“Not Lúcio?”

Well, now that she mentions it, there is the possibility that Fareeha is closer to Lúcio than to her, but that is not quite the same thing.  What they talk about, and the ways in which they discuss those things, are different.  Lúcio is young, still, at twenty-six, and internationally famous besides, what he is looking for in a relationship, and the avenues by which he might approach finding one, are fundamentally different than Fareeha and Angela’s own lives, the better part of a decade older and more or less confined to the watchpoint—even if by choice.

“ _Maybe_ Lúcio,” Fareeha concedes, “But this really is more to do with something you said, and unless you want me to discuss your relationships when I’m asking him, then…”

“I don’t!” Angela is very, very adamant, as she says this.  She and Lúcio get along well enough, for the most part, despite their differences in approach, and temperament, but getting along well does not make them friends.  They are coworkers, and as a medic, Lúcio is technically under Angela’s command, so she is not exactly _trying_ to bridge the gap into friendship, as far as Fareeha can tell.

(Granted, Angela did not try and become friends with her.  In fact, even if she is never impolite or unkind, she seems to actively avoid forging new relationships with Overwatch members from before the fall, or deepening her relationships with those whom she already knew, for fear of growing too attached and losing someone new.  Given her history, Fareeha understands this impulse, even if she thinks it unhealthy, and knows better than to try and change Angela’s mind.  Instead, she simply counts herself lucky that she proved the exception, and not the rule.)

A somewhat smug smile from Fareeha as a lucky roll helps her to take a capital from Angela, “In that case, then, you wouldn’t mind if we discussed it?”

Frowning, Angela seems to consider for a moment, “It isn’t that I mind, exactly.  You’re my friend I—well, I’d hope that you’d think you could come to me for help.  And I’m not _uncomfortable_ discussing relationships, with you.  I just… don’t know what I could say?  You know I don’t have the most experience, and yes that’s by choice but—even then, I think our dating prospects are rather different.”

(Fareeha knows, of course, that for all that Angela can be downright haughty, when it comes to her abilities, knows that her reputation as the _best_ is well earned, the same does not always extend to her view of herself.  They do not discuss it often, but Fareeha knows, by now, that Angela is insecure about her own ability to have and to maintain close relationships of any sort, worried that her background, all that she has been through, will make such impossible, that people will eventually find a reason to abandon her.  Why she feels this way, Fareeha can only guess, but she knows that that worry is there, and it hurts her to think that Angela, a person whom she cares deeply for, feels that way about herself.  Such feelings about oneself can make dating hard, of course, but it is impossible to imagine Angela would find any difficulty in finding a partner, at least for the short term, as she has said she wants, for now.)

Now Fareeha frowns, “How so?  I’m sure if you wanted to you could find someone who—”

“Not like _that_ ,” Angela’s voice is not quite sharp, but it is obvious she does not like the insinuation much, either, and Fareeha feels badly for having implied as much, even if her assumption only came from a place of care and concern, “I’m sure I could find a boyfriend if I wanted to.  I meant more that—you’re gay, Fareeha.  I don’t exactly know much about pursuing other women, but I imagine it has its own unique challenges.”

If only she knew.  Fareeha has to resist the urge to give an ungraceful snort—certainly, there are challenges to being a lesbian, and the age old cliché of falling for a heterosexual woman is one that is currently giving Fareeha quite the headache, even if that is not what this conversation is about.  At least it distracts from the uncomfortable moment immediately preceding this.

“Well,” Fareeha cannot deny it, “Yes, that’s true.  But I meant more along the lines of… When we discussed this, you told me that you were okay with the way things were, even if you were lonely.  And I’d like that, to be content.  But I’m having a little trouble adjusting to the idea.”

“Why would it be necessary?” Angela seems genuinely confused, as if it were not her reasoning which brought Fareeha to this conclusion in the first place.

How to tastefully explain this?

“What you talked about with your work being your first priority was… familiar.  I couldn’t place why, at first, because I’ve never broken up with anyone for that reason,” the fact that she has been broken up _with_ is not relevant, here, because she genuinely did not think about it at the time of their previous conversation, “But the more I thought about it, the more it sounded like my parents.  Mom was… Well, you know how she was.  Overwatch before everything, always,” and now that Overwatch is gone, her work as a vigilante has taken its place, “She couldn’t settle down, even if she tried.”

Setting her pieces aside to focus on Fareeha, Angela hums in acknowledgement but makes no move to interrupt.

“And you know I’m not my mother but—we are similar.  In some ways, at least.  And when I was thinking about what you said—I’m afraid this is one of those similarities.  I still want a wife, and I want a kid, and a dog, and a house, but,” unexpectedly, she finds her eyes growing a bit misty, has to blink to stop the welling of tears, “I promised myself I wouldn’t put my kid through all that.  No international custody agreements, no two sets of friends on different continents, no never quite knowing where you belong.  And I’m afraid that if I marry… it’ll be like you said.  Too different.  Life priorities not the same.  And inevitably…”

She pulls her hands away from each other, opening them as they move outward, mimicking an explosion, a rending apart.

Angela stands, then, moves the two short feet separating her place on the end of the couch from Fareeha’s in a living chair, squeezing by the table they pulled towards them to play Risk on, and moves to perch on the arm of Fareeha’s seat, wraps her own arms around Fareeha’s shoulders, a gentle hug.  “Oh Fareeha,” says she, “You _aren’t_ your mother.”

“I’m not,” Fareeha agrees, “I know I’m not, but I’m _like_ her, in some ways and that’s enough, isn’t it?” 

(Against her nose, the faint scent of Angela’s shampoo, faded after the long day, is terribly distracting.  Once, Angela would not have been so demonstrative—would have not touched her at all, but they have been working on it, the two of them, working on helping Angela adjust, again, to having casual physical contact with other people, allowing herself that much, outside of her job.  It is, Fareeha thinks, good for both of them, has serves as a reminder to her that not everyone _likes_ how much she likes to touch her friends, how often she moves towards physical reassurances, and has helped Angela to be more used to receiving that sort of contact.  Still, even among them, it is not so common that Fareeha does not find herself taking the gesture for granted.  Angela is deliberately doing something outside of her comfort zone in order to be reassuring, and it matters, it does, feels all the better for that fact.)

“I don’t think so,” Angela says, “Or, not in this case rather.  You approach people differently than she did.”  Fareeha hums, a question, and Angela elaborates, “You’re close to all of us—try to be.  She acted like her mother but… I think that was a way of keeping everyone at arm’s length, for her.  People could be close to her, sure, but only on her terms, only in a way which kept her in a position of authority.  You aren’t like that.”

“Huh,” Fareeha says, not sure what else to add.  She knew, of course, about the way her mother treated the soldiers under her command, had heard from so many of them, after her ‘passing’ that _your mother was a mother to us all_ , and remembers the anger, like bile, in the back of her throat, the desire to snap that it was funny, because Ana had not been a particularly good mother to _her,_ in recent years.  Somehow, it never occurred to her that it was another way of keeping distance, keeping control, letting people in, but not too far, but now that she hears it—it makes a terrible sort of sense. 

(Although she will never say it, that saddens her, too, to hear.  As their relationship broke down, she remembers wondering whom her mother had, that was close to her and could be trusted, who in her mother’s life was safe to love, to seek support from.  Not Jack and Gabriel, surely, with their endless feuding and putting her in the middle, but maybe her other, better children… But no, it seems that was not the case.  She was alone, then, and Fareeha is just now fully realizing it.)

A long pause, as Angela gives her time to process, and then a though, “That may be so,” says she, “But it was you who convinced me that this might be an issue.  Not my mother.”

Even if Angela is right, and Fareeha is not enough like Ana that their relationship pitfalls will be the same, _Angela_ has even less in common with Ana, and seems to have had the same problems with finding a relationship whilst in Overwatch.

“Then it’s a good thing,” Angela says, not quite chastising, “That you aren’t me, either.”

“Well, obviously,” Fareeha says.  For all that their values are alike, their differences, too, are not inconsiderable.  “I just mean that—what if it’s Overwatch?”

“It isn’t,” Angela is quite insistent.  “Look at Torbjörn, or Lena.  They’re happy, aren’t they?”

“Well,” Fareeha is forced to admit, “Yes, but Torbjörn was married before he ever joined Overwatch, and—”

“No _but_ s, Fareeha,” Angela scolds, “You’ll find someone too.  I know you will.  You’re lovely, and funny, and considerate, and attractive, and—I just know that there’s someone out there who’s right for you.  There has to be.” 

“That’s all well and good,” Fareeha points out, “But I’m not exactly in a position to be meeting new people right now, am I?”

“It isn’t an ideal time, no, and you might not find someone right away but—you shouldn’t give up.  You’re not like the rest of us, you _deserve_ to find love.  You could be happy, still, with someone, and they could be with you.  You’d _make_ them happy.  Just because I can’t _—oh!_ ”

Fareeha has reached one of her arms up and wrapped it around Angela’s waist as she spoke, an attempt to be comforting, too, preparing to chastise Angela for the implication that she herself does not deserve to find love, that she _cannot,_ but Fareeha forgets how bad Angela’s balance can be, outside of the suit, and how precarious her perch on the arm of the chair is, and instead of being reassuring she pulls Angela down on top of her.

“Sorry!” Angela says, face pink, at the same time Fareeha apologizes for pulling her down.

“It’s fine,” Fareeha says with a laugh, although it is pitched perhaps more nervously than most people’s would be, in this position, “It’s fine, really.  It’s my fault, and you don’t weigh that much anyway.”

“ _That_ much?”  Angela asks, clearly teasing.  “To think, I was just saying that you knew how to treat a woman right.”

“I do!” Fareeha insists, and tries to focus on that, rather than the way their bodies have fallen together on the chair, but even as she tries to resituate herself the fact that they are, both of them, rather tall women makes it impossible to completely get out of Angela’s personal space.

“You’re right,” Angela’s face softens, even as she, too, tries to make room on the seat for both of them, shifting positions to be more comfortable, “You do.  Which is why I think that you shouldn’t give up on finding someone.  Just because I believed— _believe_ —that I’m better off not trying, that I’m happier alone, doesn’t mean the same for you.  You shouldn’t let me discourage you from doing what’s best for yourself.”

(Fareeha does not miss the change in tense, when Angela says she _believed_ that she would be happier alone, and she wants, desperately, to ask a question about that, to press, but she knows that whatever it is, Angela will share it in time, and it will only make the both of them uncomfortable if she tries to force the issue now.  But she tucks the thought away for later, to ponder after the both of them have said their goodnights, wonders what in Angela’s life has changed, and what she might do to help her, so that she, too, can find happiness.)

“You’re right,” Fareeha says, and thinks _More right than you know,_ “I shouldn’t just give up on things, should I?”

On Angela, yes, she should, needs to move on, needs to stop herself from feeling the ridiculous butterflies she does about the fact that she and Angela are so close together, like this.  Just because their friendship is more physical than most of Fareeha’s other friendships, these days, does not mean anything, nor do the looks they give one another, the closeness they feel, a special sort of bond.  They are friends, they are _friends,_ and Angela is straight.  Fareeha needs to accept that.

(Or, if she cannot accept it, she needs, at least to keep quiet.  A crush is fine to harbor, is natural, is normal, but one no is enough for Fareeha, and she knows better than to risk tarnishing a friendship she values—for that was all she ever wanted this to be, in the beginning, a friendship—just because she developed deeper feelings.  It is not going to happen.)

There is someone else out there for her, somewhere, and she _is_ worthy of their love, will be as good a match for them as they are for her.  She just has to find them.  And she will, she will.

Just as soon as she extracts herself from Angela.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope u enjoyed!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which angela has realized some things about herself

If most people were asked, they probably would say that Angela is brave—or, at least, that Mercy is.  Doing what she does, one cannot be a coward, not if they have any regard for their own safety or life, and she _is_ brave, can be, when it is necessary.  When others are in danger, when there are innocent lives at stake, she will charge into a firefight, every time, built the Valkyrie suit solely for that reason, because worse than the fear that accompanies battle, the adrenaline of a bullet whizzing by her head, is the feeling of helplessness that accompanies being on the sidelines.

(When her parents died, she was helpless, could not stay to see her father’s final breath, was pulled away by her mother, and never got the opportunity to look back, and when her mother died—she knew, in theory, what would help, knew where to apply pressure, what the injuries were, had already become fascinated by questions of anatomy and had a good idea despite being seven years old what the extent of the trauma was.  Knowing, however, was not enough.  Having not the tools, the training, she could do nothing to stop the inevitable, could only watch as, in front of her, her mother died—and not slowly, either, despite Angela’s efforts.  No amount of pressure applied to external injuries could stop the internal damage.  So she watched, she watched and she waited and she kept a vigil over the body until she was found, a few days later.)

If it is bravery, to choose her fear of combat, of dying, over her fear of helplessness, over the crushing guilt she knows she will feel if she does not do her best to prevent further deaths, then yes, Angela is a very brave person.  If it is bravery to do what she must, then she _must_ be brave, too.  But she tries not to take it to heart, when people compliment her for that, when other scientists, bound to their labs, or other doctors, who would not give up their own comfortable lives to save those most in need, tell her that they think her brave, for they could not possibly understand the life it is that she leads, the compulsion that she feels.  In truth, she does not think that it is bravery that compels her onto the field at all, is not a feeling of invincibility, or strength, just the knowledge that it is a job that _must_ be done, and the hope, too often in vain, that if she does her job well, she might spare another person from the pain she has lived wither since she was a child, the guilt of having survived, and been able to do nothing about it.

To see war as she has—anyone would act.  It is not bravery, it is simply humanity, is doing what is right, because it is what must be done.

And she knows, anyway, something no one else can see, and that is this: how very afraid she is.

In the field, no, she is not afraid then, does not have _time_ to be, is far too busy with matters far more pressing, but off of it?  There she has time for fear, and if she lets it, if she does not keep busy, it does consume her. 

A brave woman, she thinks, would not stay awake for fear of sleeping at night, would not find excuses to work through the darkness, time and again, sleeping instead during the day, when the sun is high, and bright, and she knows in an instant when she wakes that she is no longer in that place, a valley where the smoke and ash blotted out the sun.

(When she does sleep, it is with a light on, but here, with Fareeha, it is fine, to be in a dark room, the two of them.  Perhaps it is so because they are wide awake, but perhaps simply because Fareeha is always such a comforting presence at her side, so strong, and steady, and yes, brave, even now, curled against Angela as she is on the couch.)

A brave woman would have been able to return to lab work, after the explosion at Swiss Headquarters, would be able to be alone in a research lab and to not think—here is the inevitable explosion, the feeling of glass shattering against skin, of crawling across the floor to the emergency shower, hoping to clear whatever hit her from her face and her eyes.  A brave woman would know that what good she can do in a lab, the things she might discover, are far, far more important than her own comfort, and would set aside that fear, an irrational one, in order to do what is right.

(Instead, she always finds some excuse to focus more on the engineering side of her work, to tinker with the existing Valkyrie suit, improving it and her Caduceus staff, or otherwise holing up in the medical bay, tending to people, sorting through equipment, and endlessly double checking all of her equipment, ensuring she is prepared in the event of an emergency, as she was doing tonight before Fareeha pulled her out of the medbay and away from it, to watch a movie together.)

A brave woman would be able to pull the trigger on a gun every time, and not fear that things were growing too easy, not fear that she will become someone she is not, would be able to end a life in order to save someone else’s, rather than hiding around a corner and waiting for someone else to deal with the threat, unless it is a matter of her own life and death.  A brave woman would risk herself, her own soul, instead of letting the death weigh on someone else’s conscience, would be confident enough in her own morality, in her cause, in her actions, to do what she believes must be done.

(If she had, maybe Fareeha would not have come to help her, three days ago in Azerbaijan, and not sustained the injury that keeps her from going out with the rest of the team tonight, like she had originally planned.  Next time, thinks she, next time she will shoot, will do what she has to, in order to keep Fareeha safe.  She will not fail her friend again, cannot.)

A brave woman would be able to stand in a crowd, and not to wonder from what direction a potential threat could come. A brave woman could exist in society, and not constantly think about from whence an attack might come, would be able to accept that people are basically good, and most of the time, with most people, one is safe, is not in fact under threat at all, and would relax, would be able to be happy, and not overwhelmed by it all.

(Then, most nights, she could go out with the rest of the team, too, could enjoy doing so, and maybe Fareeha would not stay back, with her.  Although Fareeha insists that she does this only because she herself does not want to go out, Angela has her doubts.  When there was a group outing whilst Angela was assisting MSF in Djibouti for a week, Fareeha went out with the rest of them.  Angela knows, has seen the pictures.)

A brave woman would be able to talk about what it is she is thinking, what it is she is feeling, would accept that others might judge her for these weaknesses, might fear the consequences of honesty, but do it anyway.  A brave woman would do this, and hope that it might encourage the people about whom she cares to do the same, would set aside her own fear and discomfort for the good of all.

(For herself, she would never do such a thing, but she thinks she sees, in Fareeha’s smile, a sadness at times there should not be, and she wants to say something, to do something, but she does not know what she could possibly do, how she could possibly approach such a conversation.  She wants to, though, if it would make Fareeha happier, if it would make things better for her, if only a little bit.  For her, Angela would endure any pain.)

A brave woman would make eye contact when she speaks, would be able to look her coworkers in the eye without thinking about what they looked like lifeless, before she brought them back, time and again, how empty those eyes were, staring upwards and past her as she frantically breathed life back into their bodies.

(It is impossible, on bad days, to look in Fareeha’s eyes and not to think of her first death—nearly her final one—shot down in Volskaya, the red of her blood against the white of the snow, the emptiness in her usually warm eyes.  When she asks, Fareeha says she has no memory of what happened, what it was to die.  No one ever does, but Angela, and Angela cannot forget, will hold the knowledge within herself for all of their sakes’, will not let tell of it pass her lips.  Let the dead have their secrets, let the living have their peace.  Sitting here, beside Fareeha, watching a movie, it will not matter if they are able to make eye contact or not.  In the dark, who can tell?)

A brave woman would be able to be herself, to be open and honest about whom and what she is, and Angela—she _wants_ to be brave, and badly, but she does not know how possible that is, for her, does not know what the price of such bravery would be.  For everything else, there would be a definite benefit, were she braver, but in this?  In matters of her identity?  In saying that she is—that she might be—that she thinks—

(No, she does not know what it would be worth, to risk this, to risk this comfort that they have between them, this bond that they have now.  Are they not happy, as they are?  Are they not enjoying one another’s company already?  Why would she want to put that in jeopardy?  Perhaps that does not matter, for she does, she _does_ , she looks at Fareeha and she thinks, this is right, this is the way things ought to be, and if only she were a little more open…)

She thinks, under the right circumstances, she can be brave in other ways.

To speak one’s mind, to defy those that one loves, that one respects, that is a sort of bravery in itself, and one she has in spades.  When her beliefs, her morals, have demanded it of her, she has been brave, time and again, has spoken out against even her closest friends, has told them when it is she thinks what they do is wrong, has even testified against them, when it has proven necessary to do so.  In this regard, she has been brave many times, will continue to be.

But it is not the same, being brave like that, when it means helping other people, saving innocent lives, doing what is right, than it is to be brave in order to do something that would be good for _herself_.  That sort of bravery is not her own, and never has been. 

Some would call it selflessness, but she thinks it is cowardice in its own way.  Doing what is best for others spares her guilt, nothing more, and she simply fears being unable to live with herself more than she fears losing her friends, having to live the rest of her life out alone, because she did the right thing.  When there is risk involved, and she knows she will not feel guilty—then she never acts.

But she wishes she could, here and now.

What she would say, she does not know.  Maybe she would not speak at all, maybe she would only move one hand and bridge the gap between she and Fareeha, would lean in and—

—And Fareeha bridges that gap herself, jumping as someone lunges on screen, flinching in towards Angela, who cannot help but laugh to herself.

Fareeha, always so brave, is apparently not a fan of horror movies.  Had she known this, Angela would never have suggested this title, but she thought it would probably be more entertaining than either of the period dramas Fareeha suggested, and less awkward to sit through besides.  Of course, she did not count on Fareeha being afraid, or startled, and the fact that they would ultimately end up seated very close together on the same end of the couch, with nowhere for Angela to scoot away.

Perhaps she could have thought this through better, given the reputation of horror as a date night genre, but all that Angela was considering was whether or not she was going to have to sit next to her good friend, her very beautiful good friend, whom she only a few weeks ago admitted to herself she _might_ be attracted to, and watch people have sex on screen.  It seemed like a bad idea.

This is, perhaps, not much better.

“We can turn this off,” says she, “If you aren’t enjoying it.”

“I wouldn’t want to spoil your fun,” Fareeha says, no doubt referring to the number of times Angela has laughed during this film.  She cannot help it—having seen real traumatic injuries, time and again, poorly done special effects amuse her, particularly when a gory shot reveals the decedent to have had _four_ kidneys, but no small intestine.

“It’s not a problem,” says she, “The writing is terrible anyway.”

“It _is_ ,” Fareeha agrees, evidently deciding that Angela is being honest, as she reaches forwards and switches the film off, just as the villain catches up to yet another of their heroines—the one Angela had rather thought might survive to the end, in fact.  “I shouldn’t even be scared it’s just—stuff that jumps out at you gets me every time, you know?”

For once, Angela cannot honestly say that she relates.  “One would think, given our line of work…”

“Not the same,” Fareeha says, standing up off of the couch and going to switch on the lights, small pieces of popcorn that she dropped on herself when flinching falling off of her and onto the carpet as she does so.  “In the field, I can just shoot people that jump out at me.”

Fair enough, Angela thinks.  A fear of helplessness—that she can understand, even if her own does not center itself around something so ridiculous as films about beautiful young people dying terribly after invoking an ancient curse.

“I suppose,” says she, instead of what she was _actually_ considering, the ways in which fears of powerlessness manifest, “Winston would be rather put out if you shot the common area, yes.”

At that, Fareeha pouts, but it is clear she is only teasing, and Angela tries to pretend that she does not notice the pout, was not at all looking at Fareeha’s full lips.  “We can’t all be brave like you,” Fareeha tells her, and Angela wishes that were true.

If she were brave—there are so many things she would say, could say.  That she was wrong, when she told Fareeha that she did not share her attraction to women, that she is interested in women after all, or maybe just Fareeha in specific, that she thinks she would like to know what it would be like, for the two of them to be a couple, but she is afraid of what that would mean, for herself and for the two of them, is afraid of the implications of as much, and what would happen if things fell through.  That Fareeha is one of the best people she has ever known, is strong and smart and principled, knows what is right and does her best to make that happen, is a far better person than Angela has ever known before.  That she is _beautiful_ , and that Angela finds that she likes that, after all, likes not only the parts of Fareeha that are strong, and sharp, and hard, but the parts that are soft, and gentle, and vulnerable.

There are many things she might say to Fareeha, were she truly brave.

But she is not, has never been, has been the sort of person who was afraid since she was a child, and she remembers her father telling her that one day, she would have to be strong, would have to be the sort of person who could sleep through the night without nightmares.

(Of course, he told her this about what it would mean to become a man, something that even then, unaware that being trans was even a possibility, Angela rejected.  Always, she wanted to grow up to be a woman—but she thinks that his advice to a daughter would not be so different, probably.)

A careful hand on her knee, “You alright?”

“Hmm?”  Fareeha is crouched in front of the couch in front of her; ;she must have been lost in her thoughts for longer than she realized.  “Yes, I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely,” says she, motioning for Fareeha to step back so that she can stand, “But I think I would like some water, if you’ll excuse me.”

“I can get it,” Fareeha, always so very conscientious, offers, “If you need—”

“No, no,” she would feel bad, sending Fareeha to fetch things for her, worrying her unnecessarily, “I really am fine.  I was only distracted.”

“Damn,” Fareeha says, obviously teasing once again, “If you won’t let me get it for you, then how can I bribe you not to tell anyone that I hate horror movies?”

Moving past Fareeha and into the kitchen, she teases back, hopes Fareeha does not ask about _what_ she was thinking.  “Bribing me with water, a public utility which is included in our cost of living.  Truly, you spare no expense Captain Amari.”

“I know how to treat a woman right, _Doktor_ Ziegler.”  When Fareeha says her title, she puts a little emphasis on the accent, says it correctly, the way Angela would.

“That’s Frau Doktor Doktor to you.”  Technically, it is the proper form of address for her, but although she is proud of both her M.D. and PhD., worked hard to earn both, she finds that to draw attention in that way makes her uncomfortable, seems unnecessary.  One _Doktor_ is enough, or none if she is among friends.

“That seems like a lot of title for such a small woman,” Fareeha says, having followed Angela into the kitchen, and used her _very slight_ height advantage to effortlessly grab the glass Angela had been going on her tiptoes to reach.

“I’m the third tallest woman on this base!”  As the doctor, she would know, has everyone’s heights recorded on their charts. 

(It used to make her uncomfortable, the knowledge that she is, in fact, several centimeters taller than average, noticeably so, is taller than several of the men on this base, used to make her worry that people would see her and know that she is trans, but Fareeha is only teasing and, somehow, when Fareeha jokes about it, it is fine, does not make Angela nervous in the least.)

At this, Fareeha seems genuinely surprised, “Are you?  I thought for sure Satya—”

“No, she just has very good posture.”  And, in fact, is only a half centimeter shorter than Angela, but that detail is hardly relevant right now.

“Ah,” Fareeha says, “I guess it makes sense.  She _is_ a dancer.”

That, and she has a sort of natural confidence Angela lacks, but yes, Angela can agree that her training is probably at least part of the reason why Satya is so much better at remembering to stand straight.

After that, their conversation lapses, and there is silence between them for a minute, two, as Fareeha seems to consider something, and Angela takes small sips of water.  In truth, she was not thirsty, only wanted to distract from the moment. 

Like so many silences between them, it is comfortable, is not the sort of awkward lull in conversation that one feels compelled to break, is instead simply a moment for them both to consider things for themselves.  What Fareeha is considering, Angela does not know, but she herself is thinking about how soft Fareeha’s skin was, when they were leaned together during the film, how comforting the weight of her body, how nice the smell of her preferred perfume. 

Would it be strange to ask what it is?  Most likely not, but given that Angela is trying very hard to avoid in any way suggesting an attraction to Fareeha, she thinks that saying that she smells nice—or even implying as much—is rather counter to her goals and—

“What were you thinking about, earlier?” Fareeha asks her, then adds before she can respond, “I understand if you don’t want to talk about it, but I know it wasn’t nothing.  You’ve been quiet these past few weeks.”

“I—” Angela starts to say, _I haven’t been_ , but she has.  “I suppose I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

An understatement, if ever there was one.

“I could tell.  You’ve been holed up worse than usual and—”

“I _haven’t_.”  Holed up?  What is she, an animal?

“You have.  How late were you planning on working tonight?”  To this, Angela has no response.  “You only do that when something’s really bothering you, and I’m not saying you have to talk to _me_ , but it might help for you to discuss it with someone, at least.”

Before she speaks, Angela sets down her glass and moves to sit on one of the stools near to Fareeha, so as to have an excuse not to look at her, although she leaves an empty stool between them.  “It isn’t that I don’t trust you,” says she, and that is, she thinks, the most important issue that may come up, “I’m just—not brave, like you said I was.  And I’m not sure how to…”  Not sure how to what?  Say it?  Frame it?  Deal with the implications of what it is she is going to be admitting to?

All of those things, she supposes.

“Mum always said that indecision was the most dangerous state of being,” Fareeha tells her.

At that, Angela snorts, “Your mother gave a lot of terrible advice.”

For her part, Fareeha seems amused too, laughs warmly, and not bitterly, “You’re right.  But she did _sometimes_ have a point, and I think she was right, at least, about this.  If it’s figuring out how to say it right that’s bothering you so much, then you should just get it over with.  The aftermath can’t possibly be as bad as worrying about it.”

Whether or not Angela believes this, she is not entirely certain, but Fareeha is very persuasive, and seems, also, concerned, so she decides that it would be better, probably, to go along with this, and to tell Fareeha, rather than to create more problems by leaving her to worry.

But what to say?  She does not know, yet, if she is _certain_ she is attracted to women, beyond Fareeha, and even that—maybe she is just lonely.  It has bee a long time, since she was in a relationship, and she is lonely, and here is Fareeha, who is so caring, so considerate, who pays attention to her and yes, has mentioned an attraction to her in the past.  What if she says something, and she is wrong?  What if she hurts Fareeha by so doing?  It would be wrong of her, to toy with Fareeha’s emotions just to _experiment_ , and she does not want to ruin their friendship.

Maybe she is attracted to Fareeha, though.   Maybe it does not matter, that she is not sure if she has ever been attracted to women before, because she never considered it as an option, was always satisfied enough with men that she did not even allow herself to think that—it is complicated. 

(And a part of her is afraid of what it would mean, to be attracted to women.  She is trans, after all, and although she would never believe it of another woman, a part of her, part that is not kind, which smothers out the rest of her with needless anxiety and makes her feel less than nothing, sometimes, thinks that if she had wanted to date women, she might as well have stayed a man.)

“I… may have made a mistake,” says she.

When it is apparent that she does not know what to say beyond this, Fareeha encourages her, “We all have.”

“Yes,” Angela agrees, because it certainly is true, “But it was something rather important and I’m—I feel like I’m to old to…”  To what?  To learn new things about herself?  It sounds ridiculous, put that way, yet still, she finds herself thinking that if she really _were_ attracted to women, she would have had to have noticed by now, surely.  How could she possibly have missed something so large, and so basic?  _Everyone_ knows their sexuality—this is a crisis for someone in their teen years, or their twenties, not a woman nearing forty, who has always known her own mind.

“No one’s too old to make mistakes,” Fareeha tells her, “Look at Reinhardt.”  She is referring to the fact that, just today, Reinhardt managed to injure himself in training by misjudging the distance of a charge.  He will be fine, but it was quite the headache for her, having to keep him still long enough to ensure he was not concussed _again_.

“I _know_ ,” and this is a bit sharper than she intends, but this whole conversation is stressful.  So badly, she just wants to say what it is that she is feeling, but she does not know how to, cannot make herself act.  “I’m just—afraid of what it will mean, for me.  For my relationships.  For my future.”

Now, Fareeha is no longer reassuring, “Angela,” says she, “I know I said you didn’t have to tell me anything you didn’t want to, but you’re worrying me.  If anyone’s in any danger, then—”

“No!” says Angela, and before she has time to think about it, “I’m _gay._ ”

Silence, then, except for the sound of Angela raising one hand to cover her own mouth.  She wanted, of course, to tell Fareeha, somehow, wanted her to know this—but not like this.  Not so sudden, so imprecise, and without any pretext.

“Oh,” Fareeha sounds surprised, and there is another emotion in her tone Angela cannot quite place, not an entirely positive one.  “I shouldn’t have pressed, I’m sor—”

“No,” Angela says, “No, no, I wanted to tell you, it’s only that—I’m not _gay_ , exactly.  Well, I might be, because I certainly haven’t been interested in dating men in a while, but—I’m also not sure if I’m attracted to _women_ or to _a woman_ and—”

“Calm down,” Fareeha tells her, one hand bridging the considerable distance between them to rest on Angela’s shoulder.  By now, she must recognize this as a nervous habit of Angela’s, attempts to over-clarify in situations like this.  “You don’t have to be specific.  I’m touched that you wanted to tell me at all.”

Given that comment, and the situation in general, Angela supposes there is no denying how obviously uncomfortable this whole confession has made her, despite the fact that she has been thinking about telling Fareeha practically since the moment she realized.  “Of course I did,” says she, “I trust you.”  It is not as simple as that, of course.  She trusts Jesse, also, and he is her best friend, and bi himself, so certainly someone she could have shared this with, but Fareeha—Fareeha is different, somehow, and not only because Angela is attracted to her.  Something about her makes her so very easy to talk to, and Angela knew that Fareeha would handle this the right way.  With anyone else, things are more complicated, but Fareeha, Angela never doubts.  “But I didn’t know— _don’t_ know the specifics, and I haven’t really decided, yet… There’s a lot to consider, about my future.”

“You have time,” Fareeha reassures her.

(Does she?  Better than any of them, Angela knows just how quickly a life can end, and she does not want hers to be over before she has had the chance to determine what it means, for her, does not want to leave a question so large unanswered.)

“That may be,” she turns, too, to face Fareeha, eyes not quite making contact, “But I think I’ve taken quite enough time already.  I’m nearly forty, Fareeha.  I should have answers, by now, should at least know myself well enough that—well enough to discuss this, even if I’m not ready to _do_ anything yet.”

Standing and moving closer to her, Fareeha pulls Angela into a hug.  Seated as Angela is, her head falls right against Fareeha’s chest, and she tries very, _very_ hard to focus only on Fareeha’s words.  Fortunately, she thinks any stiffness will be written off as simply her usual discomfort with being touched, even if she has given Fareeha permission, now, to hold her at times like this.

“You don’t have to act on anything,” Fareeha reassures her, “Not until you’re ready.  And I won’t tell anyone, okay?”

Of course Fareeha will not.  Angela never once thought that Fareeha would share this information with anyone else.  Still, the reassurance is nice, and she says, “Thank you,” enunciates it just enough to be sure that Fareeha can hear her despite the awkwardness of the angle.

Does she feel any braver for having said this, having had this conversation?  No, not one bit, for she is uncertain, still, of what this will mean for her, where things will go, whether or not this one conversation will shape her future, or be forgotten in a few years’ time.  But does she feel less anxious, less afraid?  Yes, here she does.

For now, in Fareeha’s arms, she is safe.  She has time.  Nothing and no one will take that from her, and one day—one day, maybe, she will be brave enough to tell Fareeha how she feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, shes trying. coming out is hard at any age, of course, but i imagine its much harder to realize later in life that, oh, yeah, all along you missed that youre _____. that said my grandma didnt realize she was bi til she was 69 (legendary), even tho my grandfather told her he was bi in the 70s (tho he'd known since he was a kid)... so like... 25 yrs after him or smtg. so really angela shouldnt stress so much bc no matter what someone else has realized earlier or later than u. and thats just how it is. everything will happen in its time
> 
> also, fwiw, tho in this universe ive left her sexuality more up for interpretation (and ur welcome to read what ive written however u like), i hc angela as bi, but i do kinda think shes the kind of person who is never gonna be 100% sure, for herself, bc there are so many complicating factors in her personal dating history and just with how she like, thinks of herself. but i think she also realizes after a while that labels dont really matter to her bc shes happy w fareeha so why does her hypothetical attraction to other ppl factor in? but anyway, in other universes ive written her as definitely bi and thats how i tend to think of her
> 
> that was a lot of "but"s in one paragraph but like, u get it
> 
> anyway, here is this. next week... something else. and so on, and so forth. i think thisll actually be 8 chapters, which is... a lot more than the originally planned ONE... 40k >> 3k. but w/e w/e
> 
> lmk ur thoughts


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is more rushed than usual bc a bad wk plus work emergency put me behind schedule but here we are, on time

Ever since she learned the truth about her mother, secrets have left a bitter taste in Fareeha’s mouth.  She does not _want_ to be the one who keeps others in the dark, does not want the responsibility of knowing all the worst things about other people, does not want the churning guilt of wanting, so badly, to ease someone else’s hurt but being unable to say _No, my mother is alive_.  All her life, Fareeha has been nothing but open about her own motivations, about whom she is and what she wants.  To lie, to deceive, to inveigle—it is not for her.  Honesty has always suited her far better.

Yet, when Angela tells her a secret, it is different.

Perhaps because it is a different kind of secret, that has been told to her, is not the type which might hurt anyone, is not something kept so for the purpose of saving face, or manipulating others, is simply something _private_ , something that no one else needs to know, in Angela’s opinion.

Yet she has told Fareeha, has entrusted her with this information—and only her—and knowing that brings a warmth to Fareeha’s chest.

To be trusted above other people makes Fareeha proud, it does, makes her feel as if she is doing at least _something_ right in her life, does not bring with it the familiar bitterness of her mother’s secrets, the weight of the guilt of them, hanging around her neck.  Instead, this secret makes her lighter, makes her happier about herself, because Angela _trusts_ her above everyone else. 

Indeed, if anyone trusts Fareeha, she takes it as a compliment, a sign she is doing well, in her life, for she wants to be open and honest always, and wants people to feel they can be the same with her, but there is a special sort of feeling that accompanies Angela’s trust.  After all, Angela hardly trusts _herself,_ let alone anyone else.  Over the course of their relationship, Fareeha has worked very, very hard to get Angela to open up, to get her to a point where they can have each other’s back in the field without worry, and now they are not only there, but beyond that, are at the point where Angela feels comfortable sharing with her something so monumental, so important, so _vulnerable_.

Fareeha must be doing something right in her life.  It is a relief.  Her work with Overwatch has worried her, has left her too often feeling as if she is doing something wrong, being here.  Not because she does not believe in Overwatch, but because she sees the way that her mother’s death has affected everyone who knew her, who cared about her, and she knows that she could speak up, could tell her mother’s secret, and end all of their suffering, if only she were not loyal to Ana first.  It makes her feel as if it is _her_ fault, the pain that he rmother has caused, like she is an accessory after the fact, but she knows, too, that to tell the others would only hurt them in its own way.

_Ana is alive, but she does not want to see or speak to any of you._

She remembers the sting of it, realizing that her mother abandoned her, that although she loved Fareeha enough to write to her—long after the fact—she did not love her daughter enough to return.  What good would introducing that bitterness into the lives of her comrades do them?  Why ruin their memories of their relationship with Ana when they may never see her alive again?  Surely, it is better to leave them at peace.

(It feels like a rationalization, and the worst kind of one.  But what other recourse has she?  To decide this is not her place, she knows, is not a responsibility she has ever wanted, but her mother forced it upon her nonetheless.  This, more than anything, is Ana’s legacy: bitterness, shame, and guilt.)

So, it is nice to have a _good_ sort of secret, nice to have something which balances out all the nasty things in her life, something that does not make her feel as if she is suffocating, is suffocating _herself,_ as if she has flown too high in the air to breathe properly, and now is growing faint through her own fault.  This sort of secret feels rather more like the sort of air one breathes in outside of a city, when one first arrives in nature, and realizes, suddenly, how much the pollution previously bothered one’s lungs, in its absence.

Yet to keep this secret makes her sad, also.  Never in Fareeha’s life has she been closeted.  The day her mother told her what the word _lesbian_ meant was the day she came out, and from that point forward things have been that simple.  People tend to know, when they meet her, that she is gay, tend to catch a vibe, to see it in her posture, her clothing, her hobbies, and she _likes_ her life like that.  To be closeted is something unimaginable to her, as is the idea of being unsure of that part of herself.

(In fact, being gay has been one of the few constants in Fareeha’s identity.  The name Amari, she has distanced herself from, at various stages in her life, and she does not think that _Pharah_ on the field and _Fareeha_ off of it are the same person at all, cannot begin to imagine continuity there.  Even her race, her nationality, has been in question, in flux.  In Egypt, she does not feel Arab enough, and in Canada, she is not native enough, lacking some of the ties to her people and her land that her father has, and indeed being native makes her, to some, not _Canadian_ enough.  But being a lesbian?  That is always there, always has been, always will be, is one of the few things in her life that has not somehow been complicated by her mother’s judgement, or her shadow.  To lose certainty in her sexuality would, Fareeha thinks, set her quite adrift.)

So, although she does not pity Angela, exactly, respects her far too much for that sort of thinking, Fareeha does feel very badly for her, privately.  It must be painful, must be lonely, must be isolating, to not know something so intrinsic to oneself, and it must be desperately confusing to _think_ one has known, for so long, and then suddenly realize that something was missing, all along.  None of this is something to be ashamed of, Fareeha knows, but still, Angela _is_ ashamed, has confirmed as much, is embarrassed by it, and Fareeha understands why, even if she thinks that in Angela’s place, she would only feel relief, knowing herself better and watching pieces of her past click into place, a les shifting focus until suddenly, everything is clear.

To say Fareeha feels bad for Angela about discovering this would be wholly inaccurate, as would suggesting that she thinks that this is something Angela ought, already, to have known.  Just because Fareeha cannot imagine for herself what it would be like, to only realize her attraction to women at Angela’s age, does not mean she thinks it is an unusual or terrible thing, only that she does not know how it would have impacted her own life, to be without the aspect of her identity which is most stable.  If anything, she is happy for Angela, that she is discovering this at last, is understanding herself better, or at least exploring facets of her identity for the first time.  That can only be a good thing.

But Angela seems so scared of this, of anyone knowing about it, of what it means for her, and _that_ saddens Fareeha, greatly.  One’s identity ought to be celebrated, not hidden away, not feared.

Or, so Fareeha feels.

Evidently, Angela feels otherwise, and Fareeha, being a good friend, will not push her to come out to anyone else, or to do anything with anyone that she does not want to do, will not insist that she would be happier, if only she were more open about things.  Something being so for Fareeha’s life does not mean it will be the same in Angela’s, and trying to force her to do things which she is not ready for, to talk about things she cannot put words to yet—that will only make her more anxious and uncomfortable, surely.

All Fareeha can do is sit with the secret, be grateful that Angela trusted her with it at all, and try to support her friend, if and when she brings up the matter again.

So she does.

But it does not stop her from thinking, from wondering about things in a new light, and this is the worst part, Fareeha thinks, about knowing a secret: there is absolutely nothing she can do about it.

In Fareeha’s life, many people have assumed that, simply because she is gay, she is attracted to them, or to her other gay friends, and that has _never_ been true.  Like anyone, she has her own preferences, and even women who ostensibly meet those standards may not always be attractive to her.  Such is the way and of life, and attraction.  Therefore, it would be remiss of Fareeha to assume that, because Angela is gay, Angela is interested in _her._

(Or bi, or however Angela ultimately chooses to identify.  Fareeha does not know, yet, and does not mean to assume.)

Yet there are certain things, now, that Fareeha cannot help but view in a differnly light, is a certain charged quality to their conversations, an attraction she previously assumed was one-sided which may, in fact, not be so. 

Angela is more open with her, than with anyone else, more prone to make eye contact, to smile, to laugh just a tad too loudly.  Although she professes Jesse to be her best friend, it is in Fareeha she has confided this information, and is Fareeha with whom she spends the most time, outside of their working hours.  Between them touch is easy, is causal, oftentimes, despite Angela’s initial aversion to such, and their worldviews align, more often than not.

If Fareeha were on the outside looking in, she would say that yes, certainly, they seem like a couple, making dinner for each other, confiding in one another, and seeking out one another’s company to relax, to feel at home, to be themselves, at last.

But that is, perhaps, easy for her to say.  After all, she views all of their interactions with her own bias and she is very much in love with her, already, has been falling slowly over the course of this strange pseudo-relationship they have found themselves in, a relationship with all of the emotional commitment but none of the professions of love or sex.

Perhaps, to Angela’s view, this is simply a very profound friendship.  That was all either of them ever intended it to be, certainly, and it would be unfair of Fareeha to move the goalpost now.

Not that she ever knows quite where she stands, with Angela.  Oh, she knows that Angela cares deeply for her, knows that they are very close with one another, have an _intimate friendship_ , knows Angela trusts her, relies on her, in the same way that she trusts and relies on Angela, but when it comes to attitudes about sex?

That is quite another matter entirely.

Perhaps it is because Angela is a doctor, or European, or is something intrinsic to Angela herself, her own personal attitudes and approaches, the way in which she seems, sometimes, to be a little _too_ honest.  In any case, more than once Fareeha has been left wondering if Angela is flirting with her, or merely being open, honest, giving sound medical advice or just her unfiltered opinion. 

With most people, their intentions would be obvious, but Angela is a bit of an enigma to Fareeha, in terms of her inner life, always has been.  That is, in fact, part of what Fareeha was drawn to in Angela in the first place, the fact that she arouses so much curiosity.  Just when Fareeha thinks she has Angela figured out, there is something else for her to wonder about, some new contradiction, or question.

Sometimes, the questions Fareeha has nearly kill her, because the way in which Angela lives her life is so utterly foreign to her.  Even while Angela insists that her work is entirely rational, is led by a natural conclusion about what is right, and what is wrong, and not by any sentiment, she has only come to Overwatch because it has people about whom she cares, for whom she will do far more than merely _compromise_ her principles.  And Angela, who carries a gun into the field, insists, too, that it is not the same as being a solider, that her intent in killing is somehow different than the rest of theirs, as if they did not, all of them, only want to survive, and to better the world in the process.  Indeed, her friendship with Fareeha s a contradiction, for she claims to hate soldiers, and all that they stand for, and yet here the two of them are, after a long day, curled up on the couch together.

How such a thing could possibly rationalized, be justified according to Angela’s own very _rigid_ morals and staunch principles, Fareeha is dying to know, but she also knows better than to bother Angela about it, better than to pry.  If Angela wants to tell her, she will, and that is that.

In general, Fareeha tries not to pry about _anything_ , when it comes to her teammates, thinking it far better to allow them to come to confide in her naturally, but Angela especially she knows she cannot force to open up.  As much as she cares about others’ well-being, Angela can be downright standoffish, when people inquire about her own, does not want to talk at all about how she is feeling, much of the time, and does not even seem to know where to begin when she does try.  Questions only make her withdraw further, cause her to feel defensive about her own inability to answer them, or the fact that her behavior has stuck out enough to be questioned.

But none of that standoffishness stops Angela from making a comment, as the two of them enjoy an evening together, which makes Fareeha pause, blink, and again reassess whether or not Angela is coming onto her.

If they were in Angela’s office, Fareeha would say that of course it is only medical advice, and if they were sitting further apart, Fareeha would think, too, that it was only friendly, but Angela is drinking a nightcap, and they are sitting practically on top of one another, again, the result of sharing the last slice of cake left on base—London fog—and the necessity, too, of sharing a plate.

(Or, not necessity.  Either one of them could have cut the slice further in two, could have gotten another plate, or even a second _fork_ , but they did not do so.  Angela had plated the slice already, when Fareeha asked to split it, and rather than actually physically splitting the slice, Angela simply raised her fork to Fareeha’s mouth, and offered her a bite.  Practical, as it saves them extra dishes, and Angela of anyone would know if either of them were at risk of spreading something to one another, but still—it is not the way _most_ friends share food.)

So this is certainly not a professional setting, and, in fact, Fareeha does not ask Angela’s advice on a _professional_ level, or ask for any advice at all, only means to gripe, a bit, with a friend who, she assumes, will understand.

What happens is this: Fareeha takes another bite of the cake, tastes the richness of the flavor in her mouth, the depth of the chocolate and the lightest hint of lavender in the earl grey buttercream, groans, and says, “This is perfect.  I’ve been craving chocolate all day.”

“Craving?” Angela asks, head tilting slightly, a sharp motion that always signals curiosity, in her, if not a bit of concern, and amuses Fareeha for its birdlike nature.  There is a pun she can make, next time Angela does so in her suit.

A shrug from Fareeha, casual, they are friends and this is no secret thing, in any case, “I always want chocolate the first two days of my period.”  No verbal response from Angela, just a hum, so Fareeha continues, not wanting the conversation to stall out _there_ , of all places, “Isn’t it supposed to help with cramps?”

“Not really,” Angela tells her, voice more clinical, suddenly, the way it always is when she is correcting someone’s science.  “Very dark and in small amounts, perhaps, but not this shit.”

Maybe Fareeha should have known better than to mention chocolate to Angela, who is so very particular about it.  But, “You’re eating it, though.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Angela tells her, “And I like the icing.  In any case,” and then a grin stretches across her face, one that Fareeha does not at all know how to interpret, “If you _really_ wanted to do something about the cramps, orgasm has a much greater efficacy.”

Fareeha very nearly chokes, then, not sure what to make of the way Angela smirks as she says it, how she looks at Fareeha out of the corner of her eye, beneath her lashes.  It has to be a come on, it _has_ to, but then again, this _is_ Angela, who just a few weeks ago was telling her how very disinterested she is in sex in general, in recent years, and who may very well be one of those people who sets a masturbation calendar only for the health benefits.

So Fareeha is not sure, quite, how to respond, settles for something that could be taken either as flirtation or as a genuine question as to Angela’s motivations in saying as much—a safe response, something she can back out of, if Angela does not seem interested in flirting back.  “Is that your professional opinion, doctor?”

To Fareeha’s disappointment, Angela responds seriously to the question.  So, it is likely she was not flirting at all, and Fareeha only _wanted_ her to be.

“No,” says she, “If I were advising you as your _doctor_ , I’d tell you that hormonal birth control can help with that.  But since we’ve already had that conversation, and you’ve refused, the best I can do is tell you as your friend something else that might help.”

(Here is something that is not in Fareeha’s medical history: why it is she is averse to the idea of going on birth control, again.  Briefly, in her early 20s, she tried it, hoped her periods would be easier, and found instead that, quite suddenly, her mental health was far worse.  This, she did not disclose to her doctor then, and she will not disclose to Angela now, not in as many words.  Although they lean on each other for support, in so many ways, they have to dance around the subject of mental health, because of their respective roles, and the nature of their work, cannot be honest with each other about that sort of thing even if they want to.  So she lets the matter slide, for the time being, redirects her attention to something else.)

Is there a pointedness to the way Angela says friend, or does Fareeha imagine that, too?  It is impossible to say, and with Angela, impossible to venture a guess.  If only she could look outside of herself, and see their situation objectively, then maybe—

It is not worth concerning herself about, not right now.  Later, she can worry about this, when Angela is not seated practically on top of her, and there to ask her why it is she is so suddenly deep in thought.  Which brings her to a different sort of question entirely.

“Well then,” says she, “I’ll take it under advisement.  But,” she gives Angela a look, “You seem like you could use advice, too.”

“Do I?” Angela frowns, at that, sets down her drink rather seriously. 

“You don’t usually drink alone.”  Actually, Fareeha has only ever seen Angela drink with Jesse, or if someone else opens a glass of wine over dinner.

An amused quirk of Angela’s lips, “If I were drinking _alone_ , you wouldn’t know.  But I’m not, now am I?”

That is true—for all Fareeha knows Angela drinks nightly, after the two of them retire to bed, but what she meant was, “Fine, I’ve only ever seen you drink with other people.”

“You’re right,” Angela said, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“I do _try_ not to drink around people who don’t.  It’s rather impolite, isn’t it?”  Angela crinkles her nose as she says this, and Fareeha thinks about the single slice of cake, and realizes that Angela must not have counted on running into her at all, tonight.  A reasonable assumption, given that Fareeha had _intended_ to sleep early, jetlagged as she is, only for her insomnia to defeat her.

“I appreciate the thought, but I really don’t mind.”  Drunkenness, Fareeha disapproves of, but as for drinking itself?  “It’s my religion, not yours.”

A little thoughtful hum from Angela, and then a nod.  “I’ll keep that in mind, next time.”

“Next time what?”  Fareeha does not miss that Angela still has not answered her question, indirect as it was—there is _something_ weighing on her mind.

(In the beginning, Angela was hard to read, but by now Fareeha knows her well enough to recognize her tells, the set of her mouth, the way her shoulders are pulled in, the fact that she was pulling, absently, at a strand of hair naught but two minutes before.  These days, Fareeha hardly needs to _ask_ Angela, to know how it is she is feeling, but it is nonetheless still polite to do so, rather than to assume, and more effective besides.  Always, it is best to let Angela open up to her, and Fareeha still feels a bit badly about _maybe_ having pressured Angela a little too much, when they were talking the other night about what turned out to be Angela coming out.  That was not something she would have tried to force Angela’s hand on, if she had known what the conversation was going to be about.)

Now Angela turns her face away, towards the little plants that _someone_ on base must tend to, although Fareeha does not know whom, but otherwise makes no move to sit further from Fareeha.  “I might,” Angela says, “Have feelings for someone.”

Might as in she does not know, or might as in she does not want to say?  Those are two different situations entirely to be dealing with, but Fareeha does not want to ask that question just yet, thinks it will become obvious over the course of their conversation, and has a more pressing question besides.

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

(In Fareeha’s mind, it almost always is.  Yes, Angela might not reciprocate her own feelings, and it is has hurt her, a little, knowing that, but that does not make the act of loving Angela something _bad_ , even if it is a bit inconvenient.  To love someone still makes her want to be _better,_ to do that which is good and right and admirable not only by her own standards but Angela’s also.)

“Not really,” Angela tells her, “No,” but there is a bit of amusement in her tone now, at least, for reasons beyond Fareeha.  “Just ask Jesse about the last time this happened.”

Oh dear.  “What happened?”

“I stood him up.”

“Who, Jesse?”  Certainly, Angela and Jesse are close, but she always assumed that they were just friends, at best, not—

At this, Angela laughs, loud, unrestrained, snorts very indelicately as she does so.  “ _Jesse?_ ” exclaims she, “I’d never—no!” 

“Oh,” says Fareeha feeling a bit silly, “But you said ‘he,’ so I thought…”  She trails off, unsure how to conclude what It was that she thought, and feeling rather embarrassed by the turn this conversation has taken.

“I meant the man I was supposed to go on a date with, not _Jesse_!”  At least Angela is amused.

“It wasn’t clear,” Fareeha says, a bit petulantly, “And that’s not the point, anyway.  Why are you stewing over the fact that you’re attracted to someone this time?”

“I’m not _stewing_ ,” Angela tells her, but offers no alternative for what it is she is doing.  “And the problem isn’t attraction.  If I wanted to fuck them, I would.”

Fareeha notes the pronoun, _them_ , wonders if Angela is talking about someone who uses those pronouns, or is simply avoiding stating the gender of the person for whom she _has feelings_ , in her own words.

“I assume,” says Fareeha very carefully, “That it’s been a while since the previous incident, given that you mentioned Jesse.”  Unless Fareeha somehow missed Angela standing someone up since the Recall went out, it must have been five years ago, at least.

“It has,” Angela confirms for her.

“And I also assume that you aren’t the same person you were when that happened,” this is more than just an assumption—she knows that Angela has changed since she began her time with this iteration of Overwatch.

“Yes.”

“So this time, don’t stand them up.”  Really, how hard can that be?

Angela bites her lip, says, “It isn’t quite that simple.”

“No?”  Never has Fareeha known Angela to flee from a confrontation—why should this be any different?

“No.”

If Angela would give her a little more to work with, then maybe Fareeha would know what to say, here.  As it is, she feels like this conversation is not going much of anywhere.  “And why not?”

“I don’t know if they’re interested in _me_ ,” Angela says, and Fareeha hopes she does not react visibly, at that, does not seem disappointed.

(She knew better than to get her hopes up, she did, but Fareeha cannot help being hopeful, no matter how hard she tries.  Already, before she knew that, at the time, Angela identified as straight, she asked Angela out, and was rejected, and it is unfair, then, to expect that this revelation about her identity would have changed her thoughts on dating Fareeha, she _knows_ that.  Still, Fareeha had hope, and this dashes it.  That same invitation to a date would surely be proof of interest, if it were Fareeha in whom Angela is interested.)

Fareeha is a good friend, she is, and she can separate this, the way they sit so close together, the intimacy of their conversations, from her feelings, can set that aside, in order to be the person Angela needs her to be.  After all, Angela would surely do the same for her, did not allow any awkwardness to come between them after rejecting Fareeha.  This is only fair.

“Have you tried asking them?”  This is the most basic step.

“Of course not!” says Angela.  “We _work_ together.  It isn’t a good idea to—no.”

Well, that narrows down whom it could be, but only slightly.  Not Jesse, and not Fareeha.  Probably not someone too much younger than either of them, either.  Mei, maybe?  She and Angela _seem_ close enough, even f Fareeha thinks that Mei and Satya are probably more interested in one another than they are anyone else.

“Well, do they treat you differently than the treat other people?  Long looks, casual touching, more time spent one on one?”  _Shut up!_ Fareeha tells herself, worries, suddenly, that she is being too obvious about her _own_ feelings in saying this, which is very, very far from the point, here, is counter to what she is trying to do.

“Maybe,” Angela says, “It’s very hard to say.  They’re friendly with everyone.”

Definitely Mei, then.  In which case, Angela is in for just as much disappointment as Fareeha is currently feeling.

“Well,” Fareeha says, “That is quite the conundrum.”

“Yes,” says Angela, takes back the fork, and punctuates her statement with a bite of cake, “It is.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think I can help you with this one,” and she _does_ mean that, wants Angela to be happy, even if it is not with her.

Yet, when Angela turns to her, gives her a strange look, Fareeha does not know _what_ to read into her response, cannot help but wonder if maybe she was wrong, again, and Angela _does_ mean her, when she says all this.  Foolish to hope, but, “No,” says Angela, “You wouldn’t be able to,” and Fareeha is certain, this time, that there is a pointedness to it, and she thinks—

—She thinks that she had better not be thinking this, after all.  But she cannot resist what it is she does next, lean in even closer, close the gap between them, which is an easy thing, with how small it is, and say, lips nearly brushing the shell of Angela’s ear, “If it’s any help, I think I have feelings for someone, too,” a secret and a confession, all in one.

It is such an easy thing to do, and it feels so natural, so right, like they were meant to be like this, curled up next to one another, whispering things that are not for the rest of the world to know, something to hold only between the two of them. 

She hopes that this is a good secret, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soon... things will be resolved.
> 
> well, soon-ish. still debating abt whether or not we are gonna end at 8 or 10 chapters
> 
> also despite what the purist assholes in my baking discord say, lavender in the buttercream of ur london fog is GOOD
> 
> and for the record fareeha is unfortunately right abt angela being one of those ppl whos like "sigh, guess i gotta masturbate for the health benefits"


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> patch notes 23.06.2019: previous chapter amended to say "i have feelings for" rather than "im in love with" in order to be compliant with the statement in curious (05.03.2019) that it is angela who first confesses her love to fareeha. mea culpa! i realized like 5 minutes after i uploaded that id phrased it that way, but was already in ovw w a friend, and wasnt gonna abandon her just to fix it. thats what i get for putting off writing things, and not having time to edit for continuity. just call me michael chu.
> 
> also if ur going to ax hmu on twitter (@euhemeria) bc im gonna be there cosplaying pharmercy w mariel/sealfarts
> 
> anyway heres wonderwall

Often, Angela does not know how best to respond to others’ emotions.  Professionally, she has no such problems, knows what to say, and to whom, when she is giving bad news, or comforting a patient, or telling a family their options.  In such situations, there is a _right_ and a _wrong_ way to respond, and after following the same pattern of interactions over and over again for decades, now, she usually has a fairly good idea about who needs what from her, can tell from the way that they hold themselves, the timbre of their voice, who needs her to be comforting, to be kind, and who needs a confident professional, armed with the facts.  She can respond as she should, and all is well, her confidence bolstered by the distance her role as _doctor_ grants her.

But outside of her role as a surgeon, as a medic?  There, she flounders.  Because of her work, people often seem to think that she is going to be a good caregiver, or that she _wants_ such a role, and so they confide in her, think she will know what to say to comfort them, or to help them.  Unfortunately, that is almost never the case.  Why would she even _want_ to give advice, with how her own life has gone?  Why would she dare to try? 

With Fareeha, things are easier.  She is not some stranger, nor are her wants, her needs, so different from Angela’s own that she struggles to imagine what would work for her.  For all that their ways of expressing themselves are different, and the way that they carry themselves, in terms of values, and goals, they are cut from the same cloth.  Fareeha is careful, too, only to ask about things which Angela feels she _can_ answer, does not assume, as some have, that because Angela seems put together, does not share her own problems, that she does not have them.  With them, it is give and take, push and pull, both of them leaning on one another in turn, and that—that Angela can handle.

So usually, when Fareeha tells her something, Angela knows what to do with that information, knows what Fareeha wants or needs from her, knows that she can be of help, or at least be a shoulder to cry on. 

(That is new to her, letting someone cry _on_ her like Fareeha has.  Most people would not dare to try, put off by her too stiff words and awkward attempts at physical comfort.  But Fareeha does not seem to mind, if Angela holds her awkwardly, if her arms are a little too stiff, her back a bit too straight, her breathing not slow and deep and comforting.  Growing up an orphan, and then immediately finding herself thrust into working for a military organization, Angela never really had the chance to learn what this sort of thing was supposed to feel like, and never tried to, either.  As the youngest, she always worried that she would not be taken seriously, if she needed others, if she were too emotional, so she closed herself off.  And now?  Now with Fareeha she is learning, slowly, catching up on those things that she let fall to the wayside, when she was younger.  It is possibly more of a comfort to her than to Fareeha.)

But this new information?  Angela has no idea what to do with it.

Fareeha _has feelings for_ someone.  Presumably, given the context, that someone is _Angela._

Of course, she could, maybe, have meant someone else, but given that Angela was, in that very same conversation, confessing her feelings for _a person_ who just so happened to be the person to whom she was speaking, and given the way Fareeha leaned in as she said it, whispered the words against the shell of her ear, Angela thinks it is safe to assume that she is, in fact, the someone about whom Fareeha was speaking.

Given the way that they treat each other, the lingering looks they exchange, the ways Fareeha touches her, so casually, when she does not need to, the ways she finds excuses for the two of them to be together, alone, the way her tone changes, when she addresses Angela, given all that, Angela thinks it is a safe assumption that their feelings for one another are mutual.  This would be a good thing, were Angela someone else, _anyone_ else, would be cause for joy.  She loves Fareeha, and Fareeha loves her.

Simple, yes?

But it is not so. 

When Angela told Fareeha about her reservations, regarding the potential pursuit o a relationship, she was not entirely honest.  Is she, as she claimed, afraid of what it means to love someone?  Yes.  Is she worried that she will ruin it, somehow, and inclined to run, rather than to risk hurting the both of them?  Yes, also.  But is that what is stopping her from pursuing this?  No, not at all.

Rather, she is far more worried not about her own happiness, but Fareeha’s.  It is all well and good for Fareeha to say that she has feelings for Angela, and Angela does not _doubt_ her when she says so, but Angela knows, also, that it is one thing to feel that way about someone, and quite another to live with the reality of a relationship with them.

Much of what Fareeha and Angela want from their lives is the same, it is true.  They both need a partner for whom work comes first, who will accept that if their work, their beliefs, demand it of them, they will leave—and cannot be dissuaded from such.  They both would like, someday, to marry, and to have a child, if the former condition will allow for the latter.  They have hobbies and schedules which are compatible, even if they do not overlap entirely, giving them enough to talk about with one another without making them codependent, and their social circles overlap without being entirely mutual.

All of this is very well and good.  In fact, it sounds ideal.

But here is the problem: Fareeha knows who she is, and what she wants, and is ready, already, for things to be more serious between them.  In most prospective relationships, this would be a good thing.  Angela, however, is the very opposite.

Yes, she has come to terms that she is very interested in Fareeha, romantically, has admitted privately that she is _in love with_ Fareeha, and thinks that she will stay that way for quite some time, whether they pursue a relationship or not.  She knows for certain that Fareeha is a good person, worthy of being loved, of being happy, of having someone care for her, and to make her happy.

But she is not certain that she can be that person.  There are a few things that Fareeha wants that Angela is not certain if she can provide. 

One of them is this: confidence.  In all things, Fareeha is honest, is authentic, is never anything less than herself.  That is good, and Angela is happy for her, if not a little envious of her certainty, but Angela is none of those things.  Yes, right now, she is in love with Fareeha, but she does not know what that means for herself, does not know what it will mean, if Fareeha tries to hold her hand in public, or to speak about their relationship, does not know if she will still feel this way, in a year, in two, in ten, or if this sudden interest in women—or maybe just in Fareeha—will disappear as soon as it came.  What will happen then?

(To hurt Fareeha is unthinkable.  Yes, Angela is aware that Fareeha will be hurt either way, by a rejection or by a relationship which she is made to hide, or which ends suddenly with no explanation, naught but an _It’s not you, it’s me_ , but the latter seems far more painful than the former, far more profound.  And Fareeha is so happy with who she is, so confident.  Angela does not want to rob her of that, to teach her shame, to make her feel like her love is something not fit for the light of day, meant to be hidden, simply because Angela herself is not ready, yet, to tell anyone else about what it is between them.  That would be cruel beyond measure.)

One of them is this: openness.  Between them, they share many things, have been able to have the sort of emotionally honest conversations which Angela dreads, with most anyone else, have accepted one another’s desire to be vulnerable, and can do so, when it is just the two of them, can speak of things with one another that they cannot with any of the other members of Overwatch.  It is something for which Angela is incredibly grateful, something for which she did not know she was longing until she had it.  But as they are, not dating, they do not _owe_ each other that honesty, that openness, do not have an obligation to one another.  If Angela needs to speak to someone, she knows Fareeha is there for her, and that the reverse is true, also, but if Angela wants to avoid a conversation?  If there is an issue about which she has no desire to speak?  For now, she can avoid Fareeha, and remind her friend that she has no right to press, as appreciated as her concern is.  In a serious relationship, that is not the same, because their futures, their happiness, will be tied to each other, and to keep Fareeha in the dark about why her behaviors and emotions have changed would be unfair.  Now, they have their own spaces, their own lives, their own quarters to retreat to, but if this relationship progresses, as many do, then that will not be the case.  Angela does not know if she is ready for that sort of commitment, even as a part of her longs for it.

(If they live together, Fareeha will see the way Angela shakes, when she wakes up from a nightmare, will hear her if she screams, will know when she has bad days from the way that she washes her hands, when she gets back to her quarters, over and over and over until the skin of them is pink and raw, and still knows that they do not come clean.  If they live together, then on the days that her dysphoria is worst, Angela can no longer call in sick, and hide from everyone, will be _seen_ at least by one person, and known in a way which is unbearable to her.  If they live together, Fareeha will see her at her weakest, at her worst, and will have to live with that knowledge, will learn that Angela is not the woman she presents herself as, to the rest of the world, is not so brave, not so smart, not so strong.  For Fareeha to see her like that, Fareeha whom she loves, from whom she only wants approval, it is unthinkable.)

One of them is this: sex.  Angela knows, because Fareeha has mentioned as much to her, that sex is one of things she misses about being able to easily seek out relationships.  Certainly, Angela does not judge Fareeha for this, complained about the same, when her own work in the original Overwatch made it difficult for her to set a schedule and to keep dates with people.  It is an understandable, natural thing to want, that sort of closeness with another person.  However, Angela has not herself been involved with another person sexually in nearly a decade, for a combination of reasons, exhaustion, busyness, poor mood, all culminating in a lack of desire, and she does not know, now, what will happen if she tries to resume a sexual relationship with someone.  Is that even something she wants?  Or does she just think that she ought to want it, because Fareeha does, and she wants to be right for Fareeha?  Until she knows the answer to this question, she does not want to rush into anything.

(And there is a secondary concern, here: even if Angela _is_ still capable of feeling attraction to others in that way, even if she does still want to pursue sexual relationships, she has never been interested in a woman before.  It is ridiculous, she knows, because the things she feels when she looks at Fareeha are similar to the things she has felt for the men who came before her, the same racing of her heart, flushing of her cheeks, butterflies in her stomach, but she worries, still, that it will not be enough.  If they try to begin a sexual relationship, and she freezes—whether it is because she is not interested in sex with _anyone_ , or because she is not actually interested in Fareeha like that—what would that mean for them?  She does not want to ruin things between them, when their friendship is so meaningful to her already, does not want to risk that, because she might not be able to give Fareeha what she wants, or worse, might hurt her by responding in a way that she ought not to.  Better not to pursue her at all, if that will be the end result.)

Yet when they are here, together, as they are tonight, just the two of them again, those worries fall away.

Or, rather, they are overshadowed by _Fareeha_ , how good she is, how beautiful, how kind and how lovely.  Near her, Angela cannot help but think that maybe, maybe things will work out, and that she, out of anyone, must surely be worth the risk.  When she laughs, when she smiles, when she leans in too close to Angela and their gazes hold one another’s just a moment too long, it is easy to imagine a future where none of those things matter, when they fall to the side, and Fareeha is there with her, through all of it, guides her through those uncertainties, helps her overcome them, or at least find contentment with the way that things are. 

It is a beautiful dream.

Reality is this: it is not _for_ Fareeha to solve Angela’s problems for her.  She has pains of her own, and cannot be expected to solve Angela’s for her, cannot be asked to do so, even if she would, and gladly.  To do so would be to take advantage of her kindness, her giving nature, and Angela will not do that to her.  Already, she sets aside her own needs for the rest of the team often enough, and Angela does not want to add to that, wants to be someone with whom she can be vulnerable, can be herself, does not have to worry about being the strong one, for once. 

So she will not ask that of Fareeha, cannot, will only hope, instead, that she can work through this on her own, before Fareeha moves on to someone else, someone more suited and ready to receive her affections.

At least, she tells herself that.  Her conviction that she will not ask Fareeha to help her with her issues is, at least, strong, but when she is sitting in the common room, with Fareeha entirely nearer to her than the size of the size of the couch demands, it is easy to forget her promise to herself that she will do so _before_ she initiates anything with Fareeha.  When they are so close together, she is acutely aware of how easy it would be, to reach out and to touch Fareeha, to bridge the distance between them, physical and emotional, can feel the buzz of their proximity humming beneath her skin. 

But she does not do so.  Even when Fareeha confessed to her her feelings, in that roundabout way, she did nothing, behaved as if she did not understand, and then shortly afterwards slipped off to bed, unsure if she would be able to resist acting on that knowledge, if she stayed any longer, and so very, very afraid of the consequences if she does.

They are friends.  They are professionals.  They are confidantes.  Why would she want to lose any of those things, put everything they have built together in jeopardy?  Why does she want it, even now?

It is pointless to pretend to herself any longer that she does not.  When she made her excuses to lead, the last time they were sat here like this, and so soon after Fareeha’s confession, she saw the way Fareeha’s face fell, saw in it the hurt of rejection, and she knew, she _knew,_ that she could have left it like that, should have, had the power then and there to end this, before they come to anything painful, before anything is at risk.  If she wanted to, she could have ended things then and there, and she thought about it, nearly did, but here they sit again.

For once, it is not Fareeha who proposed meeting here, tonight, it was Angela.

After last time, Fareeha would have left her well enough alone, would have taken the rejection for what it was, did not invite Angela here like she usually does, even though it is only the two of them left on base, everyone else tempted away by the chance to see Jesse and Genji compete with one another in drunken mechanical bullriding.  When Fareeha did not ask her to meet here, Angela _should_ have let that be, should have let Fareeha stay in her quarters, should have cut this off, here and now, but she could not, cannot, bear the thought of losing this, whatever they have between them.

Now, here they are.

Things are not awkward between them, exactly, are much the same as they always are, but Angela can tell that Fareeha is trying very hard to respect her boundaries, sat herself further away than usual, and left it to Angela to bridge the gap, this time, to scoot nearer to her under the pretense of helping with her crossword—as if Angela, of the two of them, were better at such things.  They laugh in the same way as always, and talk about many of the same things, but the tension that has developed between them in recent months is not there, this time.

Or, rather, there is tension of a different sort between them, not the usual _good_ nervousness, but instead a carefulness that they have not needed around one another in months.  They trust each other now, or they are meant to, know what to say without upsetting each other.  But now they tiptoe, speak quietly, and Fareeha stops herself, a few times, from saying something.  It hurts.  Angela knew it would, but it is worse than she could have imagined.

(She tells herself that this is nothing, compared to what it is she will feel if they pursue a relationship between them, and it fails.  This is a temporary sort of awkwardness, before their friendship resumes its normal course, and she should accept that, and move on.  Better to be a little uncomfortable now, for a few nights, than to risk losing Fareeha forever.  That is the logical conclusion, she knows.  But when have emotions ever heeded logic?)

So it is, perhaps, no surprise, when she finds herself saying something she should not be.

“You have a little bit of lipstick in the wrong place,” says she, and it is true, Fareeha must have wiped at her mouth without thinking and in so doing smeared lipstick at the corner of her lips, but Angela does not need to do what it is she does next, reaches out before Fareeha can even try to fix it, says, “Here, let me get it for you.”

Technically, this is not crossing a line, is something that friends might do for one another, under normal circumstances—or would be were it not for the way the rest of Angela’s hand, which is not the thumb cleaning the corner of Fareeha’s mouth, cups her cheek.  Would be, were it not for the fact that when she is done, Angela says, “There, all better,” and without removing her hand, or even really thinking, says, “It’s a lovely shade on you, you know.”

“It’s alright,” Fareeha says.  “Not my best color, but I look too much like my mother when I wear anything but black.”

“ _I_ like it,” Angela insists, “It’s as bold as the rest of you.”

(She should not have said that, she knows.  Her intent is too plain in her words, and in her voice.  If her hand were elsewhere, maybe, or if her tone had been different, it could pass as friendly, but here, like this?  What she means is so, so obvious to the both of them, so plain to see.  This is not what she meant to do, tonight.  What she wanted was to show that they could still be friends, that Fareeha had not made her uncomfortable, with her confession, had not scared her off.  Instead, she finds herself again draw into Fareeha’s orbit, like a planet around the sun, a cold lifeless rock which cannot escape the blinding light or blistering heat of some greater celestial body.)

Fareeha’s blush does not show on her skin, quite, not in the dim lighting of the room, but Angela can feel the blush rise on her cheeks, with the hand that still has not released Fareeha’s face.

(It burns her hand, hot, _too_ hot, but she cannot pull away, not yet.)

“Well,” Fareeha says, tilts her head slightly further in towards Angela’s hand as she does so, “Thank you.  You look nice as always.”

Angela laughs, at that, cannot help it, and the spell is broken, at least for a moment.  When she wants to, she _can_ look nice, but such is definitely not the case, today.  She is dressed for comfort, as she almost always is, and in the only clean clothing she has left after putting off her laundry for too long, an old blouse she rarely wears, because the velvet of it is often too hot for her, particularly here, in Gibraltar, in spring, and slacks with it, the pants leg too wide to be fashionable, right now. 

“You need to get your eyes checked,” Angela tells Fareeha, patting her cheek twice and releasing it.  “I can pencil you in for tomorrow morning.”

“Very funny,” Fareeha tells her, before her tone shifts, abruptly, back to what it had been before—unwilling, or perhaps as unable as Angela, to let whatever it was they have between them, in moments like that, go.  “But I mean it, I like the shirt,” and she leans in a bit closer, then, too close for acquaintances, certainly, and too close, even for friends, puts her left hand, the prosthetic one, and the one nearest Angela, on her shoulder.  “Is it new?”

“Oh,” Angela starts to say, “No,” but by that point, Fareeha is already reaching out, reaching across the entirety of both of their bodies, right arm towards Angela’s left wrist.

“It looks like it has a nice texture,” says she, and then hesitates, hand hovering above Angela’s arm, “Can I touch it?”

Angela could say no, could stop whatever this is right now, could put an end to it, and she should, she knows she should—at least for now, until she knows, better, whether or not she will be able to be the sort of woman whom Fareeha wants—but she does not want to, not one bit.  Where this is going, she is not quite certain, and despite what she thinks she _ought_ to do, she is too curious, in this moment, to see where Fareeha is leading.

“Go ahead,” says she, her voice quieter, too, even as she reaches her arm up towards Fareeha, offering it up to be touched.

Against the fabric, Fareeha’s touch is feather light, strokes the area right above the inside of Angela’s wrist, and Angela struggles not to let her breath hitch, at the sensation, even as her pulse picks up, just a little. 

“So soft,” Fareeha tells her, and then, even quieter, almost as if it is not meant to be heard by anyone, even the two of them, “You’re always so soft.”

(Of the two of them, Angela thinks, Fareeha is certainly the softer, is the one o them more capable of gentleness, like this, and of being open, and vulnerable.  Often, Angela feels that she herself is all hard angles, unrefined, prickly, unable and unwilling both to be the way she ought to, with other people, for fear of letting them in.  But Fareeha is her opposite, is caring, is kind, allows herself that softness that Angela denies.)

Angela’s eyes move from Fareeha’s hand to her face, finds that Fareeha has been looking at her all the while.  Rather than meeting Fareeha’s gaze, however, she looks again instead at her lips, so full, and surely just as soft as the shirt in question, maybe softer still.  What must it feel like, to kiss her?

A swallow that she hopes Fareeha cannot see, and then a question, one she thinks she knows the answer to already, but cannot stop herself from asking, “Are you so gentle with everyone?” 

(It is an out, asking that, a reminder that this is not what _friends_ do, and that to continue to act like this will be to cross a line.  But it is an invitation, too, carries with it an expectation that Fareeha will say no, that she is like this only for Angela, and that they will go somewhere from there.  Angela wants her to say yes, and to end this, before either of them can be hurt, but not so strongly as she wants Fareeha to say no, so that she can find out, at last, how it is Fareeha’s lips taste on her own, can know what it is she has been denying herself, all these months, at first unaware that she felt attraction, and then afraid of it.)

“Just with you,” Fareeha says, thumb slipping beneath the fabric of Angela’s shirt to rub small circles over her wrist directly.  Can she feel Angela’s pulse through the thin skin there?  Does she know how fast Angela’s heart is beating?

Surely, she must, and she does not stop, does not back down, instead moves just the slightest bit closer, so that her knee bumps Angela’s, a reminder that she is so close, now, that Angela would barely have to move, in order to kiss her, could simply lean over a bit, and up.  So simple.  So close, and yet, in that moment, the distance has never been greater.  On one side, the relationship they have now, as they are, and on the other—Angela does not know.

“You don’t have to be,” says Angela, although it is what she likes about Fareeha, her tenderness, her kind heart, so different from many of the other soldier she has known.  “I won’t break.”

(This is not true.  Everything in her is taught with anticipation, now, and she is simultaneously so hopeful and so afraid that she knows that if just one thing goes wrong, she will shatter.  Yet she pushes that worry to the back of her mind, too focused on the way she can feel the heat of Fareeha, through her clothes, and the thought of the warmth she will feel, kissing Fareeha.)

“No?”  Fareeha leans in so close that Angela can feel the words on her face, in the form of Fareeha’s breath against her skin.  “Show me.”

(It is reasonable, for Fareeha to be cautious, after what happened the last time that they sat here, is reasonable that she would want it to be Angela who makes this decision.  If Angela had any sense, she would notice that caution, and would act accordingly, would not charge on ahead but would admit that she is not sure, yet, how to navigate this—but she is entirely too caught up in the moment, in _Fareeha_ , and she forgets herself, then.)

To bridge the gap between them is at once unthinkable and the most natural thing in the world, and when Angela finally does it, after silence between them that seems to last far longer than it is, heavy with anticipation, anxiety, and longing, all that once, it feels almost too sudden.  Despite the fact that they undoubtedly both have plenty of experience, the kiss is initially a bit awkward, Angela pressing her face against Fareeha’s inelegantly, their noses bumping together, and Fareeha too surprised by the fact that she actually _did it_ to respond immediately, but then they adjust, both allow themselves to accept that yes, this is actually happening, and then—then it is nice.  Fareeha must have brushed her teeth, before Angela asked her to be here, must have been getting ready for bed, because her breath is still minty, and her lips are softer, even, than Angela has always imagined, and the callouses on her hand, as she moves to cup Angela’s cheek, are not unpleasant at all, but a reminder that Fareeha is able to be so many things, gentle and strong in equal measure.

At once, Angela’s heart soars, and she feels something else stirring with her stomach—dread.  She pushes it away, tries to focus on the moment, on how nice Fareeha’s hair smells, where it has fallen against Angela’s face and tickles her cheek, the way she is moving to deepen the kiss, mouth slipping open in invitation, the shift of the hand that was on Angela’s inner arm down to her hip.

If Angela can only focus on those things, she tells herself, it will be fine.  If she can only keep sight of all that is _good_ about this, all her doubts and anxieties will melt away, because kissing Fareeha feels _right_ in the same way it does to don her Valkyrie Suit—like she was made for her, a perfect fit.  All she has to do is to keep her mind on that, and not the future, to let herself stop thinking, for a moment, stop worrying and—

—Is that Lena she hears, coming down the hall? 

She freezes, and then—yes, that _is_ her, Angela would know that laugh anywhere, and if she can hear Lena, then she is no more than a second away, with her blink, could be here at any moment, could drop in on them, as she often does, and ask how their night is going. 

If she did, she would see them, would _know_ , and Angela—Angela is not ready for that, not yet, is hardly able to admit all of this to herself, let alone to someone else, especially _Lena,_ who although very well meaning will undoubtedly be entirely too interested in this development, Angela going from insisting, always, that no, Lena, she does not just need to _give the ladies a try_ , thank you, to here, now, kissing Fareeha Amari.

Now the dread is back in full force, and nausea with it, fear.  She is not ready, is not ready to talk about this, or for other people to know, is not ready for the way in which others seeing them will change what they have, is not ready for how _real_ that makes all of this.

“I’m sorry,” says she, jerking away suddenly.  “I’m sorry, I have to—I can’t—”

One hand reaches up to cover her mouth, where undoubtedly Fareeha’s lipstick is smeared, too dark for her skin, and tears prick at the corner of her eyes, and without even bothering to finish the sentence, she flees, does not once hesitate, or look back, for she knows she could not bear what it is she would see:

Fareeha, alone, looking so lost, so betrayed, so broken, smaller and weaker than she has ever seemed before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:D
> 
> of course it couldnt be that easy. we still have four chapters to go!
> 
> stay tuned next week for... fareeha dealing w the fallout. alone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall know that poetic cinema pic? me @ myself realizing id accidentally been foreshadowing smtg i didnt even see coming til i was writing it

Like most soldiers, Fareeha is not the sort of person who has an easy time discussing her problems, her emotions, with other people.  Weakness is dangerous, in the field, is something that will get one killed, or one’s teammates.  Fear and doubt mean hesitation, which means in turn firing just one second too late, lingering just a moment too long, looking at the enemy’s face for just long enough to think, _Oh, they’re a person like me, they’re just as scared as I am,_ and to rethink—a terribly dangerous thing.

Best not to feel.  If that cannot be helped, then it is best, at the very least, to not let anyone _else_ know that one feels such things.  As long as such emotions are private, as long as they are secret, no one can doubt one’s dedication, one’s ability, one’s health. 

A good soldier, a dedicated, decorated one, Fareeha is _excellent_ at compartmentalizing, at repressing things, at pushing feelings so far away that although she knows she must feel them, somewhere within herself, her emotions are like an ocean, and all she has access to is the surface, the rippling of the water caused by something deep beneath.  Rarely does she know where, specifically, the echoes of emotion she feels come from, and rarely does she _want_ to.

Or, rather, _Pharah_ is like that, on the field, and when around her subordinates.  Pharah is everything a soldier should be, is able to shove aside all emotion and get the job done, to not think about the things she feels, the doubts she has, and complete the mission.  But here, on base, as Fareeha?

She feels too much, too deeply, too often. 

Around most of the team, she tries to keep positive, as much as she possibly can, tries to never waver, to never doubt, tries to keep the mask of Pharah on, and never let all the vulnerability of _Fareeha_ show.  That is what is needed, from a commander, steady resolve, and courage.  To see her hesitate—that would be a terrible thing, for those who serve under her.  If a soldier falters, it will kill them, it is true, but if it is one’s commander who does the same?  That means death for _everyone_.  They cannot know, therefore, just how much it is she feels, how often, how many doubts she has, how many regrets.

Most of them. 

Angela, however, is in the same boat, as the team’s surgeon, is equally unable—unwilling?—to be seen as unsure, as anything less than one hundred percent confident.  Like Fareeha, her hesitation could spell death for the rest of them, and like Fareeha, she has to shove her emotions away, around everyone else.  This is part of the reason they have gravitated to one another, Fareeha thinks, the rare freedom they have to be vulnerable, to admit that they area fallible, to feel fear, and admit to guilt.  Between them, they keep those secrets, and it good, is better than, to be able to breathe and to feel and to know that someone else understands, on some level, what it is to deny oneself the right to feel, in order that others might be safe.

(Perhaps, Fareeha thinks, Angela experiences it differently, the divorcing of her emotions from herself, than Fareeha does.  For Fareeha, it is as if she is two different people—one self for the field, and one self for off of it.  The things that other person does, Pharah, they are not _Fareeha’s_ actions, and that distance, it is enough that she can breathe, enough that she can say that yes, maybe Pharah has done terrible things, made the worst of decisions, in order to save the many, but Fareeha has not, and can try and be happy, not hurt herself over the actions of someone else.  But Angela seems not to let herself give name to any of her emotions at all, instead.  Feels all the guilt, but thinks that by not putting it to words, she can will it away.  As a coping mechanism, Fareeha thinks—well, _neither_ of them are healthy, but—it is not a good one, not in the long term, because it seems Angela has forgotten what it is to let herself feel any emotions at all, good or bad.  She suffers for it, and now Fareeha is, too.)

This is all well and good, to confide in each other, to have in one another a space to be weak, something that both of them lacked previously, but it means that, when Angela is somehow tied to Fareeha’s current poor mood, things are… difficult.

Angela is not, of course, the only person on base she might confide in.  Aleks and Lúcio are her friends, too, and the both of them could be there for her, if she wanted to let them, have been, for other, more minor issues, but this is something far more complicated, far more intimate than that.

(Aleks is a hero to her people, and knows what it is to always put on a brave face, and Lúcio, as a star, must always seem happy, for his fans, cannot let them think that he is unhappy because of _them_ when he meets them, and knows how to plaster on a smile.  Both of these issues are ones Fareeha can relate to.  It is just that neither of them are relevant _here_.)

She cannot tell them that Angela kissed her.  To do so would be a betrayal of Angela’s trust, and anyway, would not get to the heart of her problem.

Being kissed by Angela is not what is bothering her, nor is the fact that Angela was not ready for such, and fled.  That, Fareeha suspected might happen, _worried_ would happen, was part of the reason she tried not to push Angela, on nights previous, tried not to flirt to hard.  All of this is new to her friend, she knows, the intimacy of what they have, the expectations that come with a potential relationship, and, of course, the question of her sexuality.  In the past, Angela warned her, she fled from her feelings, so truly, Fareeha is not surprised she did so again. 

If anything, Fareeha blames herself, for practically daring Angela to kiss her, knowing that she might not yet be ready for such a thing.  It is a big change, to enter into a relationship where already one is talking about the future, long-term, and perhaps an even bigger one to suddenly be doubting one’s sexuality.  There is much to consider, there, before letting things begin in earnest—much that the two of them have not yet talked about, and _should_ have, before they kissed one another.

But they did not.  Instead, when Angela hesitated, after complimenting Fareeha, backed off, changed tones, Fareeha pressed, reached over and flirted with her again, did something intended to arouse, to entice, and she knew, she _knew_ it might have ended like this.  Yet she did it anyway, and here she is.

So, no, Fareeha does not blame Angela for running off, not at all, does not blame her for feeling overwhelmed by the suddenness of it.  One night, they were talking in circles around their feelings, were friends only, and the next, with no discussion save for the color of Fareeha’s lipstick and the texture of Angela’s shirt, they were kissing.  Who would not feel a little surprised, a little overwhelmed, by that?

(In the past, such a natural progression, from flirting to seduction, has gone fine for Fareeha, it should be noted.  But in the past, Fareeha dated women who knew already what they wanted, who were more certain of their sexuality, of their plans for their future, of their feelings.  It is not that Fareeha thinks she acted _wrongly,_ because she did not, did not force Angela into doing anything she did not want to do, and let Angela initiate everything, but that does not mean that her choices were, perhaps, the best ones for this given situation.  Not doing anything _wrong_ does not mean that Fareeha’s actions were the wisest possible, either.)

But even that, the fact that she is kicking herself over how things went with Angela, is not truly the heart of the matter.  Angela is an adult, and a very accomplished one, at that.  She is capable of making her own choices, and faces the consequences of such.  In the end, although Fareeha played a role, it was not she who initiated the kiss, and Angela is equally responsible for what transpired, for how it made her feel.

No, what bothers Fareeha is something that she can talk to no one about: the running itself.

No one would dare ask her if she has any sort of abandonment issues, and, in fact, they would not feel they had _reason_ to do so, given that they do not know the true circumstances of Ana’s ‘death.’  Even if anyone _did_ ask Fareeha, she would protest, would deny it, would ask them why they would think such a thing and assert that no, no, she is fine, really, is not at all affected by what happened with her mother, really.

That would, of course, be a lie.

Before two nights ago, it would not have been, would have been the truth, so far as she knew.  As much as Fareeha is able, she has pushed from her mind what her mother did, has not allowed herself to have an opinion on the matter, to dwell on the unfairness of it all, because that is _life_ , and wallowing in misery over it would accomplish nothing, particularly when she can tell no one why it is she feels the way she does.  To everyone else, her mother is dead, and so she is allowed grief, sometimes, but so many years on is expected to be over it—or, as _over_ the death of a parent anyone can be.  It is a normal, natural thing, and she at least has her father, still, unlike so many of her teammates, orphaned in their childhoods. 

But Ana did _not_ die, and the pain she causes is ongoing, the knowledge that she faked her own death, that she left Fareeha to _think_ she was dead, for so long, that she thought her daughter would not be affected by such, that she would not be torn apart by the knowledge that the final words they exchanged were so cruel, so painful.  Her mother ‘died’ and only as an afterthought considered what harm it would cause Fareeha, for she believed—perhaps believes still—that her daughter truly did not want to speak to her, ever again.  That is the worst part, that her mother would chose, like that, to rob Fareeha the opportunity to ever attempt to reconcile with her, would have let Fareeha go her whole life believing that she died angry with her daughter, no longer willing to speak with her.

(That her mother wrote to her eventually does not factor into this feeling.  It was an afterthought, _Fareeha_ was an afterthought, and by informing her daughter that she is, in fact, alive, Ana has placed another burden on Fareeha: to carry her secret.  Now, it must be Fareeha who perpetuates the pain of that deception, brings it upon all of her friends and her father.  Why?  What does she owe her mother?  She cannot say, but still, she feels she has no choice, is honor and duty bound.)

How this could possibly _not_ have affected her, she does not know, but she hoped, _believed_ , that such was the case, right up until the moment Angela turned and fled from her.  In that instant, what she felt was not the pain of rejection—in fact, she does not _feel_ rejected, really, understands that Angela was afraid, more than anything, of something within herself—but rather, it was fear, a worry that has gripped her for years now, and suddenly came crashing down upon her all at once.

Everyone in her life sees only a part of her.  On the field, they see Pharah, confident, bright, self-assured.  Off of it, when they are off duty, they sometimes get a glimpse of Fareeha, who is far more human than the face she shows the world, far more scared, far more guilty, far less a hero.  Never does anyone see all of her at once.  Even Fareeha does not know which of her faces is the true one, anymore, does not know what she is and what she wants, at her core.  But her mother knew all of her, because the Fareeha she last spoke to had not been fragmented, yet, had not been forced to pull herself apart to survive warfare, separating off the parts of herself that are not able to deal with the world in which she lives, are not appropriate to what she _ought_ to be feeling, in any given situation.

Ana was the last to know all of her, saw her in the final moments before Fareeha split a part of herself, resolved to be only _Amari_ , a last name, a legacy, and a rank.  No longer is she that woman, so bitter, so angry, so without a sense of self, but she has created Pharah for herself, rather than returning to being only Fareeha.  It was Ana who last knew the truth of Fareeha, when there was only one her to know, and her mother, her _own_ mother rejected that, would have gone to her grave never speaking to that woman again, nearly did, and so she fears—

What would anyone think of her, if they knew everything?  All she has seen, all she has done, all she has felt and forced herself not to feel?  She has lied to all of them, in pretending to be strong, has confidently made decisions that have led to the deaths of civilians and comrades alike, and has justified them to herself, in a way that no hero, no good leader would.  Surely, they would reject her, just as her mother did.

That, more than anything, is what bothers Fareeha, about Angela having run away—not the why of it, not really, but how much even that little moment that seemed like an abandonment, like a rejection, stung her, how much it scared her, how much it dredged up within her, feelings she has been pushing away for years, now.

That it was not Angela’s intent to abandon her does not matter here, because it is not Angela’s ability to handle a relationship Fareeha is worried about, not really.  She is concerned for Angela of course, wants to apologize, for whatever role she had in what happened, wants to make sure Angela is okay, because they are friends, and because she cares for her, no matter what comes of this, but she is also concerned, suddenly, with her own ability to handle a relationship, if things between them continue down this path.

It is not something Fareeha has considered, that it might be _she_ who is not ready for this, but now that she thinks about it, now that she lets herself admit as much, if only privately, it is the truth.  The thought that she will expose all of herself to Angela, that she will lay her emotions bare, and be rejected, that terrifies her.  And she fears, too, the fact that Angela might die in the field, that they might argue, and never have the chance to make up, as she believed had happened with her mother, only this time, it would be real.

What will she do, if after a few months Angela decides that she does not want to date women after all, that Fareeha was a lovely experiment, but they are better off as friends?  Or, worse, if Angela decides that she was right in that she is interested in women, but wrong about _Fareeha_?  What if she decides that the reality of who Fareeha is, the totality of her, is not the sort of person she wants to spend her time with, after all.  It might happen, Fareeha knows.  Angela might leave, as people often do, and it would be unfair to expect her _not_ to, when they are not even dating yet.

That a romantic rejection is not a reflection on Fareeha’s character is something she knows, intellectually, just as she knows that what happened between her and her mother did not mean that she was unworthy of love.  But knowing such things and _feeling_ them are not the same, and Fareeha does not want to be in a relationship, if she is going to be unhealthily attached to the other person, in any way, does not want to make Angela feel like she cannot leave her—and also does not want to hide the way she might react to things from her.  Full disclosure would be best, would allow her to explain that this has nothing to do with romance, really, but that is not an option, with Ana ‘dead’ still.

(She never hated her mother, not even during their worst of arguments, but now?  So many years and kilometers apart?  Now Fareeha feels something close to that.  In so many ways, her mother’s decision hurt her, is hurting her still, and she wishes she could say something—but to where would she address the letter?  Her mother never did give her a return address, and even if she had, she does not know how she would phrase her problems, how she would put to words all the things she is thinking, feeling, all the ways in which her mother continues to cause her pain.  Even if she could say those things, it would perhaps not be best to, would be better to maintain the distance between them now.  So Fareeha is stuck, again robbed of any real choice.)

If it is going to bother her this much, Angela darting off after having kissed her once, then maybe a relationship is not a good idea.  There is always a chance that things will end badly, always has been, and she knows it would only hurt both of them, to bring unfair expectations to the table.

But that does not change that she _wants_ Angela, still, that she is, in fact, in love with her.  Maybe it would not be a good idea, to pursue things, maybe neither of them is ready for this, now—but that does not mean that neither of them want it, does not mean that neither of them will be ready, in the future.  Maybe they just need time. 

But how can she say that?  How, without bringing up the problem at hand?  This is the dilemma that faces Fareeha—she does not want to say to Angela that it is because _Angela_ is not ready, for she might reply that she feels she is, after all, and Fareeha cannot say why _she_ needs to consider if she is ready, for she cannot mention that her mother is alive, after all, and she finds herself suddenly grappling with the fallout from that.

(And a part of her worries that if she does say something, that will be the end of everything between them, will break whatever spell they have fallen under, as simple as that.  Then, in a few weeks, in a few months, in a few years, she might wake up one day and feel that she _is_ ready, after all, might realize that all of this was ridiculous, was her worrying too much.  And if that happens?  Then what will she do?  She will have thrown all of this away, and for what?)

At least Angela is gone, away on a mission to Auckland, and Fareeha has time to work through all this before she returns, to decide how much of the magnitude of what she feels is simply because this is her first time realizing how much her mother’s loss affected her, how much is fear, because this is a new potential relationship with someone she does not want to risk losing over something like romance, and how much is actually, genuinely going to be a problem for her, moving forward.  She has time to work this out, plenty of it.

Or, so she thinks.  As soon as it occurs to her that she has a week, perhaps more, until Angela returns, her phone buzzes.  A text.

**angela [01:43]: Are you awake?**

Fareeha thinks it best not to answer, tries to ignore the message, and to find her train of thought, again, to further tease out what it is she is feeling, to try and parse how much of her reaction will be an ongoing problem, and how much was solely because this is the first time she realized just how much it bothers her, now, the fear that anyone might leave her at any moment, might decide that she is not worth loving, or trying to, and walk out of her life. 

_Tries._

But she does want to know what Angela has to say, and she does not silence her phone, keeps it open where she can see the texts she receives, just in case Angela texts her again.

She does, of course she does.  Double-texting has always been her style. 

**angela [01:46]: I’m sorry I didn’t text sooner.  It’s been busy here.**

Here being tending to the ill, after a flood has knocked out power to many of the major hospitals in the area, and helping to stabilize them for evacuation to other locations.  Fareeha understands this, does not blame her for being busy—would not have blamed her for needing time to herself even if there were _no_ natural disaster, simply because she needed to think, following what happened between them, to collect herself and to decide how to proceed.  Fareeha needs that time, herself.

Yet it seems Angela has had enough time to think, even busy as she has been, because as Fareeha watches, the typing bubble on her screen appears, disappears, appears again.  This repeats several times over, as Angela seems to consider what it is she is saying very carefully.

**angela [01:50]: I need to talk to you when we get back.**

**angela [01:50]: Privately, that is.  Not in the rec room, this time.**

Shit.  _That_ worries Fareeha, both the words— _We need to talk—_ and the fact that the conversation needs to be private.  It makes sense, of course, that it would be, given the sensitive nature of the discussion, as Angela is not out, so far as Fareeha knows, to anyone but herself, and because their relationship, whatever it may become, is not, strictly speaking, aboveboard, at least according to old Overwatch regulations.  And yes, all their previous conversations have been private, too, even if that has been only because no one was on base to interrupt them, but somehow the extra stipulation that it _must_ be so, whatever Angela says, cannot be discussed in a public venue, worries Fareeha.  It must be very serious, and in her experience, serious usually means _bad_.

Worse, Angela is still typing, taking her time in saying whatever it is that comes next, stopping and starting and erasing and starting again, bubble disappearing and reappearing again and again.  What she is saying must be important, for she spends a good deal of time in writing the message, and Fareeha knows firsthand that Angela is normally a very quick typist.

**angela [02:01]: I know you’re probably asleep right now, so you won’t see this until the morning, but I wanted to apologize.  Running wasn’t helpful, and I know that.  It would have been better for me to have stayed, and to have discussed things.  I reacted poorly, and I wish I hadn’t had to fly out the next morning, so we could have had this conversation face to face, because I know that I must have hurt you, and I don’t want to do that, ever.  Hopefully (1/2)**

**angela [02:01]: I’ll be back soon, but it’s looking more like I’ll be away for another week, at least.  There’s an outbreak happening in several of the larger temporary accommodations for the displaced.  I’ll explain more when I get back, but for now please know that I’m sorry.  You deserve better. (2/2)**

Well, Fareeha does not know what to make of all of that, does not have the first clue.  It does not seem like Angela is typing anymore, so this should be the last of what she has to say, which is a good thing, at least.  It means Fareeha has time to consider only the contents of this message.

First, Angela has apologized for leaving as she did—that is a good sign, an encouraging one.  If this is going to be a problem for Fareeha, a sudden fear of abandonment, then at least it seems as if Angela will be working to avoid doing so in the future, or at least is conscious that she should not do so.  But that does not change _Fareeha’s_ reaction to things, does not change that she may still not be ready for how she will feel, if things end between them, and that she will perhaps not react correctly to a perceived abandonment.  This is not a problem that Angela changing a behavior can solve.

Second, there is the fact that Angela is going to be in New Zealand for a while longer.  This should not feel like a good thing, but it _does_ , and Fareeha finds herself very relieved by the fact that she has time, still, to consider this, her own reaction, to decide for herself whether or not she is ready to be in a relationship, just yet, ready for the risks it would entail.

(Never before has Fareeha been _glad_ that Angela is going to be gone, for any period of time, quite likes having her around.  So it worries her, that suddenly she finds it to be such a good thing.  What does it say about a potential relationship, that already she feels this dread?)

Third, there is the fact that Angela believes there is something to _explain_ , not simply an _I panicked, I’m sorry, I wasn’t ready just yet._ What there could be to explain, Fareeha does not know, but all the ideas that she can come up with worry her.  Perhaps they really are not ready for this, either of them.  Perhaps, for all their chemistry, for all that they fall together so easily, they would be better off remaining friends, after all.

Somehow, despite the fact that such is the logical conclusion, Fareeha feels disappointment in the pit of her stomach, is almost sick with it.  She does not _want_ that, wants to be with Angela, thinks that they would be happy, together, if they could only find a way past the things that are holding them back.

But then there is the end of Angela’s text, _You deserve better._

Does she?  Fareeha rather doubts it, is instead afraid that the opposite is in fact true.  Rather than it being she who deserves better, it is Angela, who ought to be with someone who knows who they are, at the end of the day, who is able to open up to people, and to be wholly themself, who is not afraid to be honest, because that must, surely, end in a rejection.

No, Angela does not deserve to deal with that.  Surely not.

_Ding._

**angela [02:17]: I’m sorry I sent that all at once, and didn’t give you a chance to reply.  Maybe we can discuss it over dinner when I’m back?  I’ll cook.**

**angela [02:17]: Sweet dreams.  I’m glad you’re sleeping.**

Always so concerned for Fareeha’s wellbeing, even at times like this.  And what concern has Fareeha shown her?  It was Angela who fled upset, Angela who clearly feels guilty about what happened, and Fareeha _saw_ her texting, did not acknowledge her apology, has left her to worry over the message for the past quarter of an hour.

No, she thinks, it is certainly Angela who deserves better than her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway. good thing i decided not to title the chapters of this fic w songs from golden hour bc its only 13 songs long and this is gonna be 12 chapters now so like... theoretically.. if i somehow add another pair of chapters AGAIN (i wont) im all out of titles. however this one would def be "mother" LMAO
> 
> dont worry tho yall. theyll still work everything out. they have to bc basically the whole rest of this fic series is predicated on that fact


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> went out for celebratory drinks w friends, almost forgot to write this entirely. OOPS
> 
> but hey it takes two hours to write 5000 words if ur REALLY determined

To say that Angela is prone to worrying would be an understatement.  She does, she _always_ does, and for the most part, that worry serves her and her teammates well.  Often, it keeps them alive, keeps them out of danger, keeps her eyes on them when she ought to accept that all is well, and good, and normal.  If she worries more than she needs to, she does not voice it, and no one is going to complain.  Her worrying keeps the people about whom she cares alive.

So she tells herself, in any case.

But it cannot be denied that, at times, she does worry too much and yes, she has, at times, let that anxiety hold her back.  Not that she would term it as such—anxiety.  Not in front of anyone else.  She has a perfectly normal, rational, reasonable level of worry, that is not _anxiety._ Not clinically.

(And what clinical thresholds she does meet, she ignores.  If there is no diagnosis, then she can deny, deny, deny.  That is important, to her, and important to the work she does.  Any sort of recognition that her judgement is in any way impaired is a threat to her work, and to her ability to be relied upon by her team.  So she avoids getting one, even if she knows it might be applicable.  Maybe.  Even if she reads over the diagnostic criteria for things and thinks—thinks nothing, other than that she is not qualified to make a diagnosis, so what does it matter, really?  If she sees a similarity, that is meaningless.  And no one who would be qualified to make those connections is ever made aware.)

If she is unwilling to return to the lab, after the explosion at HQ, she can wave that away, can say that she does not want to study things, any longer, does not want her work to be created, used, and abused, would not see it perverted by the likes of Moira, and others.  She can claim, too, that it is a comfort to her, to be able to work hands-on, is a higher calling.  If people say she is washed up, that she peaked young, that already, at thirty-seven, she knows she has made her greatest contributions, and that is why she no longer researches—that, too, she can accept.  Anything but the truth.  The feeling of broken glass embedded in her skin, chemicals on her face, and smoke in her lungs.  Anything but the fear that comes with stepping into a proper lab environment, every time.

Day by day, she is working on that fear, is working to push herself back into the lab, for the good of her many, and her team, is improving her nanites in order to continue and ensure the new Overwatch’s safety against the innovations made by Talon.

At least that fear comes from something, at least that worry is not unfounded.  It protects her, it does, kept her from accepting a job in Oasis, where she might have found herself beholden to Moira, who, as it turns out, is quite enmeshed in Talon.  It keeps her from the ghosts of her past, and it is a _reasonable_ thing.

And if she fears going hungry, what of it?  No one notices the careful way she keeps track of food, how much of it she has stored away, for herself and herself alone, should the worst come to pass, should there be another Crisis and her access to food again restricted.  And it is not hurting anyone, what she does, when she stockpiles nonperishable items.  In fact, it might save someone, one day, if her worst fears come to pass.  It is not as if anyone notices, anyway, not as if anyone is hurt by this.  A secret, just for her.

(Maybe others do notice, a little, the way she is always quick to grab the last piece of bread, or the fact that when she is stressed, she cooks for herself, or that she has a separate grocery list from everyone else, to feed only herself, and that all the items on it will never spoil.  But why would they question those things?  One is hunger, one is normal, and one is just a quirk, at worst.  It is no one’s business why she does this, no one’s but her own, and none of them know her history, in any case, have not been permitted to learn it.)

When she checks, and double checks, that everyone’s health is in order, puts Genji through more stress tests than most people would make him endure, that too, is excusable.  All she is is thorough, really, and it is good for all of their health.  One does not want a doctor who is not so exacting, so attentive to detail.  That such is born of personal attachment, of fear of what it would be, to lose all of them, she does not say, and they do not know.

A little fear, a little worry—it can be healthy.  Or not unhealthy, at least, is not enough to stop her from helping others or from taking care of herself, not really.

Most of the time.

But here, it seems, her worries have gotten the best of her, and she has found herself doing something unforgivable—panicking and the worst of times, and in so, hurting Fareeha.

Normally, Angela does not panic.  Not in front of others, at least.  That is something she cannot afford to do, and not something that can be afforded of her, either, if the people under her care wish to live.  She has to be steady, be calm, to think and act first, and to feel later.

But this time, she did not.  This time, she was overwhelmed, and frightened, and had a moment too long, in the silence after she and Fareeha finally kissed, to think, and to realize just how large the ramifications of her actions were, and then—then she did not feel ready.  Then, she thought, if she were discovered, if _they_ were, she would not know what to say, or what to feel, would not know what to do with herself.

But a little panic can be a good thing, for now, here Angela is—certain.

For all that she can be anxious, one thing that she has never been is _indecisive._ She knows what she wants, why she wants it, when and how.  That is important, to being a surgeon, to being a combat medic, to _surviving_ , and it is a skill she has cultivated well.  What she knew, even as she was fleeing, even as she was frightened, and avoiding discovery, is that she _wants_ to be with Fareeha, she does.  More than anything.

It is, partly, the strength of that wanting which scared her, scares her still.

For much of her life, now, Angela has been alone, without a family or anyone to look out for her.  What will she do, if she has to share her life with someone else?  What kind of partner could she possibly be?  She does not know, and she does not like to be so uncertain, does not like the idea that her life will likely be drastically changed, if she allows herself a relationship with someone she _loves_.  There is compromise, expected there, and sacrifice, and a certain level of dependence.  None of this is something that Angela particularly relishes.  She has been happy, on her own.

Why ruin that?

(And, of course, there is the fear of what it will mean, to lose Fareeha.  In Angela’s mind, it is not a matter of _if_ , but when.  Unless she dies before Fareeha—which is, in their line of work, always a possibility—then even if they never break up, she will lose her, one way or another.  Already, Angela has lost far too many people, to death, mostly, but to disagreements, to war in other ways, has seen them change and fade away from the people she once knew, once admired.  To think of that happening to Fareeha, any of it, is unacceptable to her, is terrifying, is something by which she could not possibly abide.  And yet, and _yet_ , she may have to, if they are going to be together.  Unless she dies first, she will lose Fareeha in some way, will drive her away, or see her change and become someone else entirely, or worse, be powerless to save her, watch her die.  And Angela has no plan to die first, has always survived things that ought to have been impossible to, will not stop surviving now.  Yet one thing she does not know if she could survive, not war, not hunger, not an explosion, or complete disillusionment with her former employers, and family, is another loss like that one.  What would she do, if Fareeha died?  What would be left to her?  She does not let herself consider it, for none of the answers are good ones.)

But she is decisive, she _is_ , and she has decided this: that she wants Fareeha. 

Or, rather, she wants a relationship _with_ Fareeha, and all that entails.  In part, this is because she knew how very hurt Fareeha was, when she ran away, and knew in that moment that she never wanted to hurt Fareeha so again, only ever wanted to make her happy, and knows, too, that she will have more opportunities to make Fareeha happy if they are together, if they allow themselves the sort of interdependence a relationship brings, if they are no longer constrained by the boundaries of friendship, no longer dance around each other and what it is they really mean to say, really feel, really want to do.  In part, it is a selfish wish, for she knows that all the pain that the end of the relationship will bring her must surely be lesser than the joy simply being near Fareeha gives to her.  When she is with Fareeha she is _happy_ , is free, is less burdened than she ever feels, otherwise, and she does not want to give that up, not for anything.

Not for fear.  Not for potential pain.  Not for uncertainty.

Yes, it chases her, that uncertainty, the same sharp pang of it which made her run.  What will this mean, for her?  What does it say about her, if she really is gay, or, not gay, maybe, but interested in women?  What does it mean that for all that she has been confident in herself, all that she has claimed to know who and what she is, she did not see this, not for thirty-seven years? 

What else does she not know?

And what can she say, when others ask about it?  Can she tell them that she did not know?  Theoretically, yes, but practically?  She knows herself.  It would hurt her, to say that.

(Perhaps she is too proud.  Who could blame her?  All her life she has been a prodigy, a genius, a success, and that is not such a good thing, after all.  It carries with it burdens, fears, the feeling, always, that maybe, _maybe_ , it was all just a fluke, and she does not deserve any of the accolades she has gotten, and one day, everyone will know, will see, just how very ordinary she is, and then they will not want her around anymore, for everyone Angela knows she met because of her accomplishments, her abilities.  No one save perhaps for Fareeha knows her for herself.  And if she admits she is wrong, that she did not know any one little thing, that fear again rears its head, that everyone will see through her, this time, and then?  Then she will be left with nothing.)

But that is not something to be solved by running away.  She knows this, she does, has always known it.  Instead, she can talk to Fareeha, can discuss what it is this means for them, and what it is they will say to the others, and when.  If she just has time—no Lena bursting in, or anyone else talking about the two of them—to figure things out, she knows she will, will find _some_ answer.  She always does.

In that moment she panicked, yes, but that was only because she did not have time to plan, to prepare.  All she needs is to talk things though, before they go any further, and she will be fine, will be perfectly able to be the woman Fareeha wants her to be, the partner.

(Maybe not perfectly able.  Angela, perhaps more than anyone, is well aware of her own shortcomings.  They haunt her, day and night.  But she will be able to try, at least, to do her utmost, which is what Fareeha deserves—or as close to what Fareeha deserves as Angela can offer.  That is what matters, surely?)

So she texts Fareeha, as soon as she is able, after she finally is free from work and _awake_ for long enough to do so, tells her that they need to talk, and that she will cook, has, even, a plan of what meal it is she will prepare, all ready in her head.  She texts and… Fareeha does not answer.

In and of itself, that is not so unusual.  Fareeha _ought_ to be asleep, early as it is, even if she often is not, is given to poor sleeping habits and, worse, prone to insomnia.  What is unusual is when, twelve hours later, Angela finally has the chance to check her phone again, after having needed to shower, and change, to wash the blood and other, unspeakable things from herself, and she sees that Fareeha has not replied still.  Fareeha _always_ replies.

So then, Angela worries.  She did not mean badly, by running away, and she is sure Fareeha knows that, but she knows, too, that not meaning badly does not mean that she cannot hurt other people, and now she finds herself worrying that she has been selfish, in her approach to this, has thought only of herself.

Maybe Fareeha does not _want_ to wait to discuss things.  Maybe she thinks she gave Angela a second chance, already, after her less than ideal response to Fareeha alluding to feelings of her own, and has decided that she is not willing to deal with Angela’s hesitation, her fear?

That would be fair.

Fair, also, would be wanting to be in a relationship with someone who knows better what they are doing, who is more sure of what it would mean, for the two of them to be together.  Usually, Angela _is_ confident, and Fareeha has praised her for that many times, has complimented her decisiveness—a trait Fareeha also has in spades. What if, having seen just how afraid Angela can be, just how uncertain, Fareeha has decided that they are not so suited after all, has seen through the image Angela projects of herself, calm, cool, collected, and realized that she is, in fact, not so, and thinks that she does not want to be with a woman who worries, as Angela does, who doubts herself, who does not know, at this age, exactly who and what she is?

Could she fault Fareeha for that?

Surely not.

But what can she do about that?  She is who she is, and yes, she tries to change her worst qualities, _always_ , knows what her mides are, and works to mitigate them, to bring herself to as close to a functional, normal person as she feels is possible, given her circumstances.  If Fareeha does not want her, having seen her fear, her hesitation, the doubt she has in herself, even as she is confident in everything else, then there is nothing Angela can say that will make this better.  She has texted Fareeha, and said her piece.  She apologized, and offered to speak, the two of them, face to face, offered to have a proper discussion about what both of them want, and where they are going.

If Fareeha does not want to do that, if she does not want, even, to turn Angela down, then to message her again will not be helpful, surely.  There is nothing gained by trying to talk to her any further—it would not show decisiveness, would not show certainty, would only prove once again how very worried and uncertain Angela is feeling. 

So that is that.

And maybe, she tells herself, maybe Fareeha merely needs _space._ Maybe she is busy, herself, or needs time to consider what it is she is going to say to Angela, be it a gentle rejection, or a yes with qualification.  Maybe something else has come up on base which requires more of her attention.

Maybe she just thinks that by not answering, her _yes_ is understood.  It would not be the first time that such a misunderstanding has occurred between the two of them, although in the past it has always been Angela who has assumed that if Fareeha invites her to something, then she should simply arrive at the appointed time and place.

In any case, Angela knows that she cannot afford to be worrying over this, not really.  There are people whose lives depend upon her, and the lives of others will always take precedence over her own happiness, will always be more important than any relationship she pursues.

This, she told Fareeha, and this she knows to be true.

Angela wants to be happy, but she knows, too, that no happiness she deserves outweighs another’s life.

(Once, she almost made a selfish choice— _almost._ It was after her first kill, and she wanted to leave Overwatch, so badly, could not stand the thought of what it was she had done, and what it might be that she would find herself asked to do in the future.  So she quit.  She wrote a letter, and she left it on Ana’s desk, and thought—well, that _should_ have been that.  In fact, Angela took steps to ensure that her departure from Overwatch was more final, indeed, than simply a retirement.  But Ana found her.  She found her, and she saved her, and when it was certain that Angela was going to still be there in a day’s time, a week’s, a month’s, she sat Angela down and she did not yell, but she explained, under no uncertain terms, that Angela was uniquely suited to saving certain people, ones whom she _cared_ about, they both did, and by so leaving she left all of them at risk.  Would she kill her family?  _No_ , Angela promised, _no._ Looking back, no longer so vulnerable as she was at that time, and having been, herself, in charge of others, Angela knows that Ana said all the wrong things, made all the wrong demands, put all the wrong expectations on her shoulders, and she knows, too, that Ana truly believed what it was she said, lived her own life by the same principles, until it _did_ kill her.  From that point onward, it has been impossible for Angela to abandon Overwatch, both in its previous incarnation and the current, no matter how little she wants to say, because she knows that even if Ana was wrong to say it, it is true.) 

Only Angela can bring back the dead.  Only she can protect her friends.  Why should her happiness be worth more than the lives of those she loves?  Why should she believe that she _would_ be happy, if she passively allowed others to die, particularly those for whom she cares?

Killing one person, once, almost killed Angela, and she knows that to passively allow others to die, out of a selfish desire to be happy, and not because she is saving her own life, that would do worse than kill her.  It would be a poor reflection upon her very soul. 

So, she focuses on other people, and she decidedly does _not_ think about Fareeha, not during the day, thinks about how she apparently needs to educate an entire country on the importance of arranging beds head to foot, in order to limit the spread of airborne illness, thinks about which patients she ought to prioritize, as she quickly scans her charts, in order to ensure that everyone lives, thinks about which medication to prescribe a patient who will likely suffer at least a mild side effect from all of them, which would be most tolerable for them, would decrease their quality of life the least.  All of these things, surely, are more important than her not-quite relationship with Fareeha Amari.

So she tells herself.

At night, it is a different story.  She tosses, and she turns, and she wonders what it is Fareeha is doing, on the other side of the world, what it is she is thinking.  Is she, too, unable to sleep?  Is she afraid, also, of how much she feels, how suddenly, and what it might mean for her?  Or is she, conversely, afraid of just how easily this has crept up on the two of them, how gradually they went from strangers to two people who are able, so easily, to confide things in each other that they can scarcely admit to themselves?

Or is she angry, at Angela, for running?  Is she having doubts about how dedicated Angela could possibly be to a relationship, when she knows that Angela has said her work will always come first?  That would be more than fair, would be, in fact, completely normal.

Any of these things, Angela could accept, but she wishes she knew which it was.  If it were a rejection, she could understand, would be hurt, of course, will be for some time, but at least she could begin to process that, and hopefully figure out how to behave around Fareeha before she returns, and they see each other face to face again.  In fact, Angela has rather been expecting a rejection, since she realized that she is attracted to Fareeha.  Yes, Fareeha expressed an interest in her first, but Fareeha is so much more vivacious than she, more adventurous, younger.  Surely she does not want the sort of thing Angela would be offering her: quiet, steady companionship, when her work allows time for it.

Although she does not want to be rejected, she knows that it may likely be what is coming, and is not at all going to be angry, if that is the case.  Sad and resigned, of course, and left to wonder if this—the sudden desire to pursue something long term, the attraction to women, the belief, even if held only for a moment, that she might be _suited_ to someone else—was all just a passing fancy, and to try and sort through that on her own, but that would not be so terrible.  Angela has worked through many worse things on her own.

(Always, always alone.)

But if Fareeha agrees to meet?  If she still wants this?  What then? 

For Angela that is a bigger mystery, and somehow, too, a greater worry.  Being single, Angela knows a good deal about, but relationships, serious ones, are a mystery to her, not something she has ever been willing to pursue, lacking the inclination, the time, or the courage.  If Fareeha says yes, what will she do?

Talk to her, of course, like she planned.  Outline her concerns.  Be open, as transparent as possible, in explaining her own limitations when it comes to a relationship, the reasons why she would want things to go slowly, even if that is, perhaps, not what is expected after both parties have already, if circumspectly, admitted that they have feelings for one another.

(That is another worry, albeit a lesser one, that Fareeha will not understand Angela’s need to go slowly, when emotionally they are already so intimately involved.  But she does, she _does_ , needs to ease herself into this, get used to the idea of relying on another person, or even just including them in her life, her thought process, her routine, in a way that is more than an informal arrangement.  If they dive straight into this she is afraid it will overwhelm her, again, and that she will run or shut down or push Fareeha away, out of fear, not knowing what else to do.  That is her worst case scenario, to start things and to have them end badly simply because she was incautious.  That would be unfair to Fareeha, would cause her undue pain, and what Angela wants is for Fareeha to be happy, more than anything, thinks that that would make her happy, too.  So she has to do things in a way that are healthy for her, are within her boundaries, has to make that clear from the start, and not only for her own sake.  Something like that _ought_ to be understandable, but she knows how much like a rejection it might sound, if she phrases it in the wrong way.  _I want you but not like that, not yet,_ and how presumptuous, the idea that Fareeha would be willing to wait for her indefinitely.)

From there, if Fareeha agrees, again, with the limitations she needs to impose, for now, the boundaries that are important to her and to the health of their relationship, she expects Fareeha will have boundaries of her own.  Hopefully, those will be acceptable to her.  She imagines, of course, that they will be.  After all, Angela has been—not perfectly happy, but _content_ —to simply be friends with Fareeha.  Anything more that this relationship brings them is something Angela did not have before, and she will take what she can.

So if she accepts those, then what?  They will be together?  It cannot be so simple, surely, for if she has learned anything, in her life, it is that things never go so easily as one wants, but she thinks that yes, that is the logical conclusion.

It still terrifies her. 

Maybe this is a bad idea, after all, maybe—

A buzz.  Her phone.

**Fareeha [04:43]: is there anything i should bring**

**Fareeha [04:43]: to dinner, i mean**

No backing down now, it seems.  And that is a relief, all its own, to have that choice, at least, taken from her, for now.  What she wants, after all, is not to run, to be brave, to face her fears and to try to be in a relationship, no matter how hard that is.

If she only gets through this conversation for fear of disappointing Fareeha, she will not care.  It will be better than not making it through at all, and letting herself again be stopped from trying to be happy for fear of the potential consequences. 

**Me [04:44]: No, but if you could check the expiry date on my eggs, I’d appreciate that.  They’re on the middle shelf.**

**Fareeha [04:44]: will do**

**Fareeha [04:44]: same passcode as usual, right?**

For some time, now, she and Fareeha have known each other’s entry codes to everything.  It makes both of their lives easier, allows them to run little errands like this for one another.  Yet, before tonight, Angela never realized how very much like being in a _relationship_ that is.

**Me [04:44]: Yes.**

**Me [04:45]: I don’t think I’ve changed it since I was assigned my original quarters years ago.**

**Fareeha [04:46]: thats a security risk, ill have u know**

**Fareeha [04:46]: were changing it when you get back**

**Me [04:47]: I hope you’re prepared to have to wake up at 03:00 for the third time that week when I’ve forgotten the new code and locked myself out again.**

**Fareeha [04:47]: how terrible**

**Fareeha [04:48]: for once itll be ME rescuing YOU**

At that, Angela has to stifle a snort—it would not do to laugh at this, and to wake Dr. Bigombe, sleeping beside her.  And how would she explain this, acting like a teenager with a crush?

**Fareeha [04:48]: but speaking of 03:00 rescues**

**Fareeha [04:49]: shouldnt you be sleeping?**

Yes, yes Angela should.  But, not wanting to worry Fareeha, to let her know that she was, in fact, not sleeping because she was anxious about their maybe-relationship, Angela decides to be slightly less than honest.

She does not lie, because even over text she is not good at it, and has no real intent to _deceive_ Fareeha, only to keep her from worrying, says only:

**Me [04:49]: It’s hard to sleep here.  But I am getting tired, again.**

Which is true.  With all the noises, both people and animal sounds alike, and the heat, and the humidity, Angela finds it rather hard to sleep, indeed.

**Fareeha [04:50]: go to bed.  we can talk when you get back**

**Me [04:51]: Okay.  I’ll see you soon?  For dinner?**

**Fareeha [04:51]: wouldnt miss it.  now sleep**

So Angela listens, sets her phone aside, and lies her head back on her pillow and finds, at last that she _is_ in fact tired, is no longer kept awake by her anxiety, is, in fact, optimistic about what the future holds for her, and for Fareeha.

Is she still afraid?  Of course.  One conversation cannot do away a lifetime of self-isolation, of fear that one’s happiness comes at a terrible price, but with Fareeha by her side, she feels braver, feels that she will be able, in time, to overcome that fear and maybe, _maybe_ , for once will be lucky, and things will turn out for the best.  If things go poorly, she knows she will hurt worse, for having tried, for having dared to dream that she could have someone else in her life, and not have it end badly.  That thought is never, ever, far from her mind.  But even if she is realistic about the potential outcome of a relationship, she will not let it stop her, not this time.

She is not any braver than she was an hour ago, a week ago, a _decade_ ago, is still the same woman she has always been.  Yet now, she finds things changing for her, not because of herself, but because of the ways in which she and Fareeha make each other better.  It is in Angela’s nature to be cautious, to worry, but this is not a decision made only by herself.

With Fareeha, she is willing to take that risk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> & i have nothing to say in conclusion other than that i am sober now :( and going to go rectify that... responsibly!
> 
> also mides = virtues/vices. yiddish word/concept but basically u have all these traits and blah blah in moderation theyre good but if youre TOO much one way... u gotta work on that. and they can run in families! caution is def one of angelas. good for some things, but shes prone, certainly, to overthinking
> 
> next week... a conversation... over dinner. that i will not forget to write until the night of. we hope.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about skipping a week. lifes been a mess. mostly not my fault (15 yr old dog dying, parents trying to use me in their divorce even tho im 22, having to help someone get sober) but also a little my fault (accidentally took a near fatal dose of... serotonin. yeah. but u know what i have NEVER felt happier)
> 
> given all that, next week may be late too. i can make no promises, right now

Fareeha is the sort of person who notices patterns, in herself and in others.  It makes her a good commander, helps her to judge situations and to read other people, to know what might be coming and to prepare for it.  Most people have at least _some_ patterns they keep to, but Angela?  Angela is truly a creature of habit.  If she needed to, Fareeha could keep track of the days by what it is Angela is eating for dinner, because she follows a two week schedule, rotating through the same fourteen meals except when one or the other members of the team persuades her to eat with the rest of them, or to go out.

That is well, and good.  People are perfectly welcome to eat what it is they like, when they like it, and the food Angela cooks, Fareeha must admit, does taste quite good, even if she always thinks it could be seasoned a bit more.  But it is a strange thing to realize, that she knows what it is that Angela will cook, and when, knows what it is she likes, and knows such well enough to check Angela’s personal fridge and buy any missing ingredients while Angela is in transit back to base.

That scares Fareeha, a little, the sudden realization that they have reached that level of easy intimacy with one another, without ever having termed what it is they have a _relationship._ Over the past few days Fareeha has decided that she might, _maybe_ , have overreacted to Angela having left—even if she feels better for having realized why, and thinks it is for the best that she had such a reaction now, before entering into a relationship—and that she certainly does want to be with Angela, despite the fact that there are things she needs to resolve for herself before she feels ready for a stronger level of commitment than they presently have, but deciding that she wants to be with Angela does not make the thought of codependence any less terrifying, and she worries about them becoming too close.

(It is a strange thing to worry about before so much as having a first date, she knows, but she knows now, too, that what happened with her mother has affected her ability to form boundaries in the right way and to respond to perceived rejection well.  So, she thinks, it is reasonable that _she_ in specific would worry about this, and is only a sign that she is taking things as seriously as she ought to.  Besides which, she rather thinks that more people ought to worry about such things.)

If they are already this close—and they are—then how will Angela take her request to not deepen things, just yet?  To continue to live apart and only to modify the name for what they have, and perhaps be physically affectionate?  Will that seem like a rejection, like a no?

It is not one.  If anything, Fareeha is worried about loving Angela too much, about getting too attached, only for things not to work out.  All Fareeha’s emotions, she feels intensely, the good and the bad, even if she does her best to hide this from others, to seem as calm as possible, knowing how she might be perceived otherwise.  Why would love be any different?

This is what she intends to tell Angela, if she asks, and it is true, but she worries that it will not sound like such, will sound like an _It’s not you, it’s me_. 

Certainly, Fareeha would not say that they are prone to miscommunication, but their different cultural backgrounds have led to the occasional misunderstanding in the past, and the truth is, Fareeha does not know anything about Swiss dating etiquette.  Is it normal for people, like Angela, to only date if they see a relationship as potentially very serious, or is that merely a personal quirk?  Does dinner come with an unspoken expectation about how the night will go?  What if Angela expects _Fareeha_ to do something, based on whatever she might have read about dating in Egypt, and forgets entirely that Fareeha gets many of her notions about relationships from her time spent growing up in Canada, instead?  That would be very awkward, to say the least.

Which is all to say that Fareeha has no idea how tonight is going to go, despite knowing down to the last detail what it is Angela is going to cook for them, what her preferred grocer is, and even the passcode to her quarters—which needs to be updated—and that worries her.

As a commander, Fareeha does a lot of planning, has to.  If she is unprepared for what is to come in the field, good people die, and it will be on her head.  This is nowhere near so serious, but still, the feeling of unease, the fear of the unanticipatable, follows her wherever she goes.

(Despite this, she is decidedly a thrill seeker, and she knows that many others cannot begin to understand that.  But the new things Fareeha tries, the risks she engages in, are all by _choice,_ and that makes all the difference.  Motorcycle riding, for example, is not a danger she cannot anticipate, cannot plan for, is in fact something that she approaches with more caution than many other things, because of the risk involved.  Angela, she knows, does not approve, despite the fact that it is her technology that has reduced the rate of fatal accidents considerably in the past two decades.)

More so than usual, therefore, Fareeha finds herself nervous before dinner.  Should she be dressed up?  Should she have gotten a host gift?  Is this a dinner, or a date?

As in everything, Angela has made herself perfectly vague. 

It is not intentional, Fareeha knows, but it can be somewhat vexing; Angela thinks that everyone will follow the same thought process as she does, and therefore understand her meaning, or reach the same conclusions as she.  Such is rarely the case.  To Angela, the invitation to _dinner_ must have seemed perfectly transparent, but Fareeha, left with a week to overthink things, cannot agree with that assessment.  Expectations were not at all made clear to her, but she does not know how to ask _Is this a date?_ without making it seem as if she herself has unstated opinions about how tonight ought to go, and what conclusion they are going to reach, after this discussion.

What she hopes is this: it is not a date, and they can talk with one another openly, free of that pressure.  She dresses accordingly, wearing rather typical attire, a floral button front and jeans; not too casual, but certainly not a _date_ outfit, and her makeup too is day to day, rather than particularly nice.

(Or, it _is_ very nice, because she puts a lot of effort into it, but it is understated, so as to appear casual.)

What she hopes is this: Angela understands that Fareeha wanting for things to proceed a bit slowly is in no way _because_ of Angela, exactly, nor is it a criticism, or anything of the sort, does not mean that Fareeha does not want to be with Angela, or that she has doubts about whether or not to enter a relationship, because she does not.  Fareeha very badly wants to be with Angela and thinks that, given time, things between them have the potential to be very good, and very serious, but she does not want to rush into this precisely for that reason.  If Fareeha is right to feel that she and Angela are well suited to be long-term partners, then she does not want to try and jump straight to that point, and risk one or both of them feeling unprepared to make that transition.

What she hopes is this: when she leaves Angela’s quarters tonight, they will be _dating_ formally, or at least have plans for a date, a real one.

More or less, they have already been going on dates.  It is true that they rarely go _out_ together, but they have often stayed in, just the two of them, for a meal and a movie, or to play a game together, or simply to talk and to be near one another, in a way that, if they were calling themselves a couple, would definitely constitute a night in.  Fareeha does not want that to change, except that now, if Angela sits so close to her that their knees are constantly bumping, she can reach an arm over Angela’s shoulder, or rest her head in her lap, or lean over and kiss her.  That is the perfect sort of intimacy, in Fareeha’s opinion.

(Here is something else Angela does not understand about Fareeha, quite, and maybe never will: for all that Fareeha wants to do things that are thrilling, for herself, for all that she loves the action of the field, it is nice to be with someone who is so very much her opposite in that regard.  With Angela, she knows always what is coming, and that feels _safe_ in a way that little else does.  She wants that quiet, those little moments between the two of them, the sense of normalcy she has then, as if they were any two other people, anywhere in the world, and not leading the sort of lives they do.  To have someone who understands her, in those moments as well as on the field, someone with whom she does not need to pretend around, in any way, is a blessing.)

Normally, Fareeha would not be so quick to use the term dating, as she hopes she and Angela will be soon, but given the current nature of their relationship, it fits in a way that little else does.  But still there is that worry that Angela will want to escalate things immediately, that she will think that a change in terminology must also mean a change in habits, rather than deciding that they are dating being simply a clarification of what is already going on between them. 

After all, she and Angela’s prior dating history is very different.  That is all well and good, for Fareeha truly does not mind what Angela has done with other people prior to the two of them deciding that they want to be a couple, _if_ that is what they decide, but she does wonder in what ways their prior experiences will color their present expectations. 

For better or for worse, however, Fareeha no longer has time to worry about that, because it is nearly time for their dinner, and Fareeha will _not_ be late.

(As a matter of principle, she never is, but to something like this especially, she does not want to arrive after she is meant to.  Even if Angela would not be cross with her—used as she is to dealing with everyone else on base being perpetually tardy to appointments—she knows that by so doing she might worry Angela, which is the last thing she wants.  Both of them, she imagines, have been doing quite enough worrying already this past fortnight.)

Because it is polite, she knocks, although she could easily let herself in, and hopes she does not look too nervous when Angela opens the door, tries to school her face.

At least she need not worry about being underdressed.  Angela’s hair is thrown up in an even messier than usual bun, and she has an apron on over her clothes, still, gives Fareeha only the briefest _come in_ , before returning to the kitchenette to finish preparing their dinner. 

“I didn’t make Geschnetzeltes today,” Angela starts, back still to Fareeha as she speaks, “Though I appreciate you getting the ingredients.”

“Oh,” says Fareeha, and worries again that this _is_ a date, after all, “You usually do, on Tuesdays,” at least, on even week Tuesdays.  Unless Angela is repeating what she would have made before going out of town, that _ought_ to be what she is making.

“Yes,” Angela agrees, “But I realized I didn’t know if you ate anything _cooked_ with wine or not, so I thought maybe it was best to have something else, just this once.”

“Oh,” honestly, Fareeha is not actually sure as to whether or not dishes which involve wine are haram or not, given that she is the sort of person who is halal more out of habit than out of any strong religious conviction, but that being said, “I appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Angela says, cheerily, before placing _something_ on the table in front of Fareeha.

“Um,” says she, “What is this?”  It is a soup of some sort, with little bits of meat in an almost noodle like shape in it.  To Angela’s credit, it smells good, but that does not mean Fareeha is just going to put it in her mouth without asking.

“Leberspätzle,” Angela says, and then, when Fareeha looks at her for elaboration, “Liver—from a cow—cooked into spätzle, then put in vegetable broth.  With some vegetables as well, of course.  It’s all halal _and_ kosher.”

“You cooked the liver into the noodle?  How long did this take?”  Not too long, she hopes.  After all, she does not know how serious this is, still.

Angela must notice her tone, because she laughs, as she divests herself of the apron and sits down at her table, across from Fareeha, “No, no, it’s easy.  It took half an hour—I’m only running late because someone had a _pressing_ medical concern that _absolutely could not wait until tomorrow_ , despite that they waited for a week for me to get back, rather than going to a doctor off base.”

“Was that someone Reinhardt, by any chance?”  She _told_ him to get someone to check out his broken toe last Monday!

“If it were,” Angela says, raising her glass to Fareeha’s, although they are only drinking water, “I couldn’t tell you,” but Fareeha can see from the way she smiles around the rim as she takes her sip that the answer is _yes_.

“Of course,” Fareeha says, “And I’m sure he told you some wild story about how it happened.  The unembellished version is nothing so interesting.”

From there, conversation proceeds to what it is Angela missed while off base, and what happened on her mission, the two of them exceedingly carefully dancing around the reason why they are meeting tonight.  Fareeha does not know how to bring it up without scaring Angela off, again, and she knows from experience that Angela tends to put off telling people things she worries will disappoint them for as long as possible. 

But despite that, dinner feels nice, feels _normal_ , and she can almost, almost forget why she is here.  Or, she thinks so, until Angela sets her glass down more firmly than usual, takes the time to straighten it, with both hands, as if something round could be off center, and Fareeha knows she is thinking, then, about how to broach the subject of their relationship—such as it is.

Fareeha is nearly done eating herself, so she sets her fork down, and the clink of it, metal against her plate, is enough to draw Angela’s attention outwards again, her head snapping towards the movement, as if jerked from deep thought.

Maybe, Fareeha thinks, _she_ ought to be the one to say something first.  Clearly, Angela is trying, and cannot find the words.

Can Fareeha?

Well, she can try, brings a napkin up to wipe her mouth, takes one last sip of water, clears her throat and—

—“I’m sorry,” says Angela, before she has to chance to speak, “For what happened last time.  I didn’t mean to—I _did_ mean to run away, but it wasn’t…”

Fareeha waits, while she thinks, does not interrupt Angela as she gathers her thoughts.  Surely, thinks she, it will be easiest this way, will be best for the both of them, will allow Fareeha a chance to gauge the situation before she says what it is that she has already decided she is going to say—that as much as she _cares for_ Angela, as much as she wants to be with her, she does not want to change much about their relationship at all, thinks best if they took their time, in adjusting to something new, because in many ways this is much too much already.

Or, not too much, not as a _friendship_ , but it crept up on Fareeha, the intimacy, the intensity, and while she could ignore it, when they were only friends, and nothing more, only confidantes and partners in the field, if they are dating, then there is meaning, there, where before she could pretend not to see it, the motivations behind Angela’s actions, and her own.  Without the pretense of friendship, Fareeha cannot deny just how much she feels for Angela, and how much that scares her.

Friendship feels safer, even if it does not better.  She is lonely, she _is_ , but she did not realize, until Angela ran away, just how much she feared a person whom she cared for leaving her again.  With friendships, it is easier, is not so personal a rejection, but a partner?  And she knows Angela might leave, even if they do come to love one another, and find happiness together, knows that, as Angela has said, her first priority will always be her work.

Is Fareeha willing to accept that?  Is loving Angela worth that risk?

(It ought to be, she knows, particularly when Fareeha thinks that she would do the same.  If, one day, she thought Overwatch immoral, unjust, she would go, too, would find work elsewhere, would do her best to continue to serve those in need with an organization whose beliefs align with her own.  To not accept the same from Angela, from any partner, would be hypocritical.)

So she thinks they need time, to really consider this, need to take things slowly and not rush into an emotional commitment which one or the both of them might sever for reasons unconnected to their relationship entirely.  Angela has only just decided to stay with the Recall, after all, and so what is to say she might not change her mind? 

But they are already committed, and Fareeha knows this, too, have been since before either of them identified what it was that they were feeling for one another, have been taking care of each other under the pretext of being comrades, friends, for far too long.

When Angela notices that she is having an off-day, in a meeting, pulls her aside afterwards, asks if she has been sleeping, it could be a doctor concerned with her patient’s well-being, but when she learns not to do that, not to push, instead surprises her that evening with dinner, having ‘accidentally’ cooked enough for two, and is willing to sit in silence, or to make idle chatter, or to _listen_ , if that is what Fareeha needs from her, that is not simply friendship.

When Fareeha finds Angela lighting candles in memory of Jack, of Gabriel, of everyone lost in the explosion at Swiss HQ, on the anniversary of that date, holds her as she says a prayer, and shakes, and finally, finally cries, it could be friendly, it _could_ be, until Angela admits, after having quieted, that she cannot remember the last time she let someone see her like this, let them hold her, comfort her, thinks it has never happened in her adult life—then it begins to cross the line into something more, something beyond what is the norm.

(For that same pattern to repeat, then, on the anniversary of the loss of her parents, it means even more, particularly when this time, it leads to a conversation, a proper one, about what the both of them have lost, about what war took from them, and how it changed their outlooks.  This is something neither of them could comfortably share with the rest of the team, not in so many words, for fear of seeming weak, when their teammates _need_ them to be strong, always.)

When after Fareeha dies the first time Angela sits with her following the mission, the two of them in the medbay alone, waits as she processes her death, her life, waits as the adrenaline finally, finally wears off and the shaking stops, waits until she is done crying and calms, that is procedure.  What is not procedure is when, two nights afterwards, Fareeha has a nightmare that she is back in the snow, is dying again, can feel the cold everywhere but her chest, burning hot with her blood, and Angela takes her into the medbay, even though it is a rude 03:00 awakening, and sits her down, puts a stethoscope in Fareeha’s ears and puts the end to her heart, says _Listen, you’re alive,_ that is something more, something different, something beyond the call of duty.

(Even more so is when, after a few months of this, Angela ‘finds’ a spare stethoscope, somewhere, and leaves it for Fareeha with a note, and Fareeha thinks that no matter how touching the gesture is, she finds Angela’s company a far greater comfort than the proof of her own life.)

When Fareeha and Angela begin to sit too close to one another, knees or shoulders always bumping, heads closer together than necessary as they whisper among themselves, that could be nothing, could be two colleagues gossiping and not wanting their coworkers to overhear, until the conversation turns from what it is the others have been up to, in their off hours, and becomes more about drawing a laugh from one another, a blush, a smile, that little look that says _you understand me like no one else._

All of this, they stand to lose.  That, Fareeha has known, can accept, as it is the nature of their job that people die, that they are killed, that sometimes, the strongest of bonds find themselves severed, suddenly, by an errant piece of shrapnel, or a building collapse, or the mistimed reloading of a weapon.  But to be in a relationship, a _proper_ one, is to be more aware of those things, to feel their loss more keenly, and to take such more personally, if it should occur because of something like a disagreement over the future of their organization, and not because of falling out of love.

And she struggles to accept that fact, struggles to know if she could respond in the right way to Angela leaving not because something is wrong with her, or _them_ , or Angela herself, but because they disagree on the future of Overwatch. 

To the both of them, it would be unfair to enter into a relationship before such feelings are resolved.  Angela running from a kiss, she can understand, or breaking up with her because of something that has happened between the two of them, specifically, but because of work?  Because of her purpose?

(A past Fareeha would have accepted this easily, would have said it would be better, to have left for such a reason, but her mother abandoned her for a _job_ , for her dedication to something beyond Overwatch, for _duty_ , and now?  Now she thinks of such differently.)

It will take time, to learn to accept that.  And there is always a risk that Angela will leave, but—

 _—_ But Angela is done thinking, now, seems to at last have found the words for what it is she is thinking, is suddenly speaking, again, more collected than before if not necessarily more calm.  “I’m in love with you,” begins she and _shit_ thinks Fareeha, because despite her increasing awareness of the depth of her own feelings towards Angela, that is not something she is ready to say back, and she flounders, for a moment, panics and wonders if she ought to respond, even if it may not be entirely true, even if the thought of being in love is still more than a little terrifying, but she is lucky, for Angela is not done with her sentence, “But I think we need to have a more serious conversation about our expectations, before we proceed.  I know we already discussed what we want from relationships, to a degree but that wasn’t…” a pause, and then, “I didn’t realize I was talking about _you_ , then, not the first time anyway, and there are things we didn’t really address.”

“Oh,” says Fareeha, and her voice sounds a bit weak to her own ears, but she is still letting the relief she feels about not being expected to reciprocate an _I love you_ sink in.  “That makes sense.”

Evidently, she is not the only one who feels relieved by the way the conversation is going, because Angela untenses visibly, sends a smile to her that is less tight than it was, a moment before, more genuine.  “Good,” says she, “I was worried that you wouldn’t want to even have this conversation, after last time.”

That surprises Fareeha, because _of course_ she wants to be with Angela.  There is a risk to doing so, a risk of growing attached, and losing someone, a risk that she will make a home for herself with Angela only for it to be torn apart by changes in their organization, a risk that either of them will be killed, or feel the need to leave, but Fareeha is a risk taker, she always has been.  Her concerns might make her cautious, might mean that she wants to move slowly, with this, so that they both have time to adjust to the emotional reality of the situation they have already found themselves in, but that does not mean that she does not want to be in a relationship—her _wanting_ has never been in question.

“Of course I do,” says she, “I… care about you.”  It is not an _I love you,_ yet, not from her, but if that disappoints Angela, she does not show it.

“I know,” and from her tone, Fareeha believes that Angela means that, “You’re not terribly subtle.”  Her mouth curls in amusement as she says this.

That Fareeha cannot deny; she is open and earnest in all things, and furthermore, “Who said I was trying to be?” 

(What Angela does not need to know is that Fareeha was, in fact, trying, and for quite some time, too, but that sounds terribly unromantic, and is probably not the answer Angela wanted from her.)

For a moment, Angela seems thrown by her flirting, breaks eye contact and clears her throat, blush appearing on her cheeks.  “Well,” says she, “Regardless of your intent, we know how we feel about one another, now, and we want to do something about it.”

“Yes,” says Fareeha, thinks, _very much so._

“But,” says Angela, and hesitates, seems nervous, and Fareeha reaches across the table to try and hold her hand, thinking that might help.

It does not.  Instead of leaving her hand where it is, allowing Fareeha to rub soothing circles on the back of it with one thumb, the way that she often has, in difficult moments, she pulls back—not quickly, but still, Fareeha has to hide her own surprise and disappointment.

“But?” asks she, because now she is confused, if not a bit worried.

With the hand that she pulled from beneath Fareeha’s, Angela tugs at a strand of hair, a nervous habit, keeps her eyes on something off to the side, “I just think that we shouldn’t be hasty,” says she, finally.

“Oh,” Fareeha can feel herself relax, the untensing of her muscles and the release of the breath she was only barely aware she was holding, “That’s fine, really.  I was going to say the same thing.  I mean, we’re basically dating already, so I think it’d be good to take time to adjust to this before we—”

“No,” says Angela, “I don’t mean…” a deep breath, enough so that Fareeha can see her take it, watch her whole body rise and fall with the thought, “That’s important, too, if we decide to pursue this.”

“ _If?_ ”

Of all the things Fareeha planned for, this was not one of them.  And did Angela not just say that she was in love with Fareeha?  Did Fareeha not just admit, in her own way, to feeling the same?  This is _not_ where she thought their conversation was headed, is not the potential sticking point she had prepared for. 

“Yes,” says Angela.  “Our feelings aren’t enough to overcome fundamental incompatibility.”

 _Fundamental—_ Fareeha thinks that she and Angela are many things, and that there are many ways in which she might describe their relationship, but _incompatible_ is hardly one of them, as enmeshed as they are already in each other’s lives, to the point where Fareeha has been worrying that they are too close.  It feels like the wind has been knocked out of her, and she does not know what to say, finds herself for once frozen in a tense moment.  She was not prepared for this, not at all.

How could she and Angela see the same relationship so differently?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fareeha: we are practically married  
> angela: we might not be compatible at all, actually
> 
> well. angela DOES have some valid concerns, which u will see next week, and then fareeha will have to consider whether or not theyre dealbreakers. bc love does not, in fact, conquer all
> 
> for the record food cooked w alcohol is technically haram bc not 100% of it evaporates but whether or not that 'counts' depends on how observant u are...
> 
> hope uve been having a better week than me! id love if u left a comment <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> h-hewwo?
> 
> long time no update. shit happened. mostly good tbh (went on vacation to see some friends, like, three of the update days in a row i missed) and a bit bad (lost abt 110k words of unposted fic bc a file corrupted... so i ragequit updating everything for a few wks). anyway, im back now. made a deal with mariel @sealfarts that we'd both post pharmercy content today so that neither of us felt like we do all the work around here, LMAO. she drew my request of angela braiding fareeha's hair before bed... and at her request, im updating this fic!
> 
> also yes i know how the next two chapters til the end are gonna go so id say "no more hiatuses" but uhh... ive had this chapter planned for four chapters before it too, and somehow shit happened. so no promises

For much of Angela’s life, she has been alone.  Often this has been by choice, too afraid of what it would mean to _lose_ to allow herself to get close to another person, but alone still.  So it is an unfamiliar sort of excitement Angela feels, knowing that Fareeha will be waiting for her, when she gets back, knowing that she is returning not only to a place but to a person, also.  That excitement is not enough to tamp out the trepidation she feels about their impending dinner, and the conversation she intends to have, not entirely, but it is a lovely counterpoint to all that worry.

Fareeha is waiting for her.  Fareeha is waiting because she has feelings for Angela, and she wants to hear what it is Angela has to say, and because they might, maybe, if the two of them are exceptionally lucky, be something more than friends, after all. 

That thought scares Angela too, and more than a little, because there is so much weight there, so much expectation, in what it means to be _in a relationship_ as opposed to merely very good friend.  Yes, they have been dating in all but name for some time, now, but that does not mean that things will not change, for acknowledging as much.  Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle states that the very act of observation fundamentally changes the nature of the thing, and so to name this, what they have between them, must surely shift it, too.  And that, Angela worries about.

What they have now is good, is more than simply that, is something beautiful, is something more importantly _comfortable_ , is something that Angela knows she can depend upon.  As things are, at the end of a long mission, Fareeha will always be happy to see her home, and they will always spend time in each other’s company, after a long absence, simply reacquainting themselves with what it is to be in the presence of another, and to do so without pretense, without hiding any part of themselves.  But if they are dating?

Angela cannot say for certain that things will be the same.

There are expectations, in a relationship, expectations that Angela does not know if she can fulfill.  What they have now is simpler, because they have never asked of one another, have only given freely what they can. 

When Fareeha needs comfort, is having a bad day, then Angela cooks for her, distracts her with food and conversation about anything _but_ what troubles her, until Fareeha is ready to broach the subject.  That is easy enough, and it has never been asked of her—so if, one day, she cannot do so, Fareeha will not complain.  But if they are a couple?  Will it not, then, be expected of each of them to help the other, should they need it?  What will happen if, on one of those days, Angela has nothing left of herself to give?  What would be the fallout, were she selfish?

(And Angela can be selfish, she knows this.  It is not something she is ashamed of, necessarily, because she has needed to be so, to survive, has needed to be the sort of the person who knows when to put herself first, even if she always feels terribly guilty afterwards.  When it comes down to it, Angela has killed to save her own life, and she worries about how that impulse to _survive_ would translate, to a relationship—would she let Fareeha suffer, in order to preserve herself?  How much of that is expected, and how much is too far?  She cannot know, does not have the experience to say for certain.)

When Fareeha wants to be herself, not the team’s commander, and talk about her worries for their future, the uncertainty that plagues the organization, Angela can empathize.  As the doctor for the team, she, too, cannot give voice to all of her worries, even if she would like to, cannot doubt her own competence even for a second.  But what if Angela leaves Overwatch?  Then, it will be confidential, the things Fareeha is thinking about, will be not for Angela to hear, to know, to voice an opinion on.  There will be a distance between them, and it will be Angela’s fault, for leaving—and what if Fareeha resents her for that?

(This Angela knows: she will leave, if she does not agree with what Overwatch is doing.  She will leave and a part of her may regret it, but she will never apologize for that, for doing what she believes to be right.  And she knows, too, that Fareeha would not apologize to her, for the very same, should it be Fareeha’s decisions which push Angela to leave.  That is who they are, principled and dedicated, and it is a commonality she admires—but she knows, one day, that it may come between them.  If they are only friends, it will be simpler, but everything is more personal, with a lover, all wounds cut deeper.  She does not want a rejection of a decision made by Fareeha to be seen as a rejection of Fareeha _herself_ , whom Angela believes she will always admire, come what may.)

When Fareeha cannot sleep, plagued by nightmares or worries or simply restlessness, Angela is too often awake too, and they find each other, somehow, in darkest hours of the night, in common spaces, and while away the time until one or both of them at last can rest.  But if they are together?  What if Fareeha expects something more, then, a different sort of comfort?  Angela is not sure she can offer that—or, rather, is not sure if she wants to, not to Fareeha or anyone.  Too often, that is expected of girlfriends, of lovers, of spouses, and Angela does not want there to be any sort of pressure, or the awkwardness that follows a refusal. 

(Angela likes sex, she does.  In theory, anyway.  But she has not been terribly interested for several years now, and she does not want Fareeha to confuse that lack of desire with a lack of desire for Fareeha in specific, because that is not the case. Fareeha is attractive enough, certainly, both in terms of her appearance and personality, but Angela just… does not know if a physical relationship is something she wants, right now, does not know if it would make her happy or be simply another source of stress.  But she also does not want Fareeha to be left wonting, because she knows that Fareeha quite enjoys sex, and has recently expressed a desire to be in a position where she were intimate with someone, again, and Angela does not want Fareeha to enter into a relationship in which she will be left feeling unsatisfied.)

So Angela worries, and she thinks it reasonable to do so.  What they have, now, is something gentle, something comfortable, something familiar, and she does not know if she wants to risk that for the potential of something better, does not know that it is worth the chance of losing Fareeha.

Or, this her mind tells her.

Her heart would have her take the risk.

And has she not been following it all along?

Logic, she has told herself for many years, is far superior to emotion, will lead her down the right path, will enable her to make the right decision even when it is difficult.  What do her emotions matter, in the face of more important things?  What is one woman’s quality of life against the duration of the lives of others?  This same rationale has lead her to warzones, to testifying against Overwatch, to the greatest discoveries of her life.  Has it made her happy?  No, not always, but she is proud of her work, is happy to have saved others, and that is enough, surely.

But it was not her mind that brought her here, to the Recall, not her better sense.  It was her emotions, her need to protect her friends, her fear of them being hurt, dying.  In simple mathematical terms, it was a bad decision.  With the Recall, all her efforts are focused towards saving scarcely more than a dozen people, and even _if_ they are as successful as the original Overwatch, in the end, this is time she could have used helping others, instead, those who needed her attention more.  She could have waited, seen if the Recall were successful, and then joined them.  She could have done a thousand things differently.

(It is not the first time she has made such a decision.  Similar is her choice not to work in the lab, anymore.  Her nanites have saved more lives already than her hands ever will, and if she did more work with them it would surely be more effective than her time with Médecins Sans Frontières.  Yet she could not bear to return to the lab, could not bear the thoughts of the deaths wrought by the misuses of her technology on her conscience, or the memory of her lab collapsing ad burning around her, in the aftermath of the explosion.  So she has a history of this, choosing selfishly, as much as she hates to admit it, a history of putting her wants above her ability to help others, even if she wishes that were not the case, even if she promises herself she will do better, in the future.)

But her heart brought her here.

Why not follow it now?

It was her heart that convinced her to bring Fareeha dinner, that first time, when her medical degree taught her that comfort food is far from beneficial for an individual’s recovery.  And it is her heart that keeps her awake, at night, talking with Fareeha, when she knows sleeping medication would surely work just as well. 

So why stop now?

She cooks, again, is careful to be certain that the meal is one they both can eat, even if it involves her going out of her way to prepare something she would not normally eat, on a Tuesday. Her routine is comforting to her, yes, and efficient, ensuring that she eats a relatively varied diet without having to keep too much track of it, and saving her the time of meal planning, but it is far from _important_. More comforting than anything, anyway, is time spent with Fareeha.

She cooks, and she hums to herself as she does so, and tries to focus on the good things, like the fact that she will get to catch up with Fareeha after too long away, and that she has found something she thinks they both will like, for dinner.

She cooks, and she does her best _not_ to think about the coming conversation, not to plan it out so carefully as she normally would, because this is, after all, something not nearly so one sided as all her worrying makes it out to be.  Surely Fareeha will have her own thoughts on the matter, her own opinions, and Angela cannot adhere to some script when doing this, because, in truth, she does not know how Fareeha will react to what it is she has to say.

Her attention to every other possible deal of the evening surely has _nothing_ to do with her trying to avoid thinking too much about the parts which make her nervous.  Nothing at all.

Fortunately, Fareeha seems as unprepared to discuss the matter at hand as Angela herself is.  They talk about what Angela cooked for dinner, and what happened on base when she was away, and about their plans for the next week, when the weather will be unseasonably cool, and they both have some time off on Thursday afternoon.  They talk and it is nice, is normal, is not awkward, or tinged with tension and the knowledge of what is to come.  It is nice, is peaceful, is one last bit of normalcy before Angela says,

“I’m sorry,” apologizes for having run away, and tries to explain what it is that she is feeling. 

As soon as she says it, she wishes she had not, wishes she had stayed in the moments of _before_ , the infinite possibility of a decision not yet made.  But now she has spoken, has decided her path, and whatever might have been, had she never spoken up, is forever lost to her.

(that is not a bad thing, necessarily, that losing, for there is no reward without risk, and a considerable amount of hard work, besides.  Yes, she was comfortable where she was, but now she has the chance at something greater, at not only comfort but real happiness.  There is a chance, too, for rejection, for hurt, but she chooses not to dwell on that, for now.  What good will it do her?  Her decision is made.)

Fareeha is patient, while Angela stumbles her way through what it is she is trying to say, while she chokes out an explanation of where she stands, right now, why she thinks they need to discuss things, despite the fact that she knows that she is in love with Fareeha, and she does not mind when Fareeha does not respond in kind, does not bestow upon Angela an _I love you_ of her own.  Fareeha says as much in her own way when she tells Angela _I care about you_ , and Angela has to fight back a smile in response, and a laugh, because it is so very like Fareeha to not be ready, yet, to commit to the gravity of an _I love you_ , but to feel the need to reassure her partner that she feels as much, anyway, lest their feelings be hurt.

(And where did that come from, that word partner?  Fareeha and she are partners, yes, on the field, but that does not mean that they are in the sense that Angela catches herself using the term, in fact, they are a far cry from it.  That is precisely why this conversation is being held, right now.)

But it worries Angela, too, to hear Fareeha say this, because Angela did not invite Fareeha here just to say _I love you_ and to be done with it.  They need to talk about this, that is why Fareeha is here and not because this is as simple as an exchange of feelings.  Things are more complicated than that, as they often are.  Feeling does not simply remove all obstacles to a relationship.  Even Angela knows that, and she does not—did not used to?—date. 

Because there are obstacles, is the issue of what Angela has identified as several potentially fundamental incompatibilities between the two of them.  When she tells as much to Fareeha, she does not do so to be cruel, but to be kind, to save Fareeha from heartache, should she think that this is something worth pursuing, and naïvely assume that all will go well between them.

To ignore the obvious would be to do both of them a disservice, this Angela knows.

Yet knowing does not make the pain on Fareeha’s face when she says that, shock and sadness and hurt all at once, easier for Angela to bear. 

“You just said that you _loved_ me,” Fareeha says, and it sounds nearly accusing, in that tone, which Angela tries to not take too personally.  What she said came as a surprise, evidently, and she should not blame Fareeha for being hurt by something that she has not had time to process, yet.

“I did,” Angela says, and then a quick correction, “I _do_ ,” because she did say it, past tense, but she does love Fareeha, present tense, and does not want any confusion between those two facts.  “But that doesn’t mean that I think pursuing a relationship is necessarily a good idea.”

“Then why say that you love me?  Why tell me if you’re only going to—if you think we’re so incompatible?”

“I didn’t say that we were,” says Angela, and she did _not._ She said that feelings were not enough to overcome fundamental incompatibility, which is not quite the same thing.

“You did,” Fareeha says, “You just did.  You said we were—”

Before Fareeha can get too much further, can continue that line of reasoning to its logical conclusion, which is not at all the one Angela was hoping that she arrive at, Angela interrupts her, “I said _if_ that were the case, feelings wouldn’t be enough to change that.  I didn’t say it _was_ so.”

Fareeha purses her lips for a second, obviously displeased by what Angela knows she must view as a semantic argument, and considers what it was that was just said.  By so doing, she unknowingly emphasizes the rather amusing tan line she has developed recently, the shape of the Raptora’s beak obvious on her very serious face, quite an amusing contrast, and Angela has to try stifle her amusement at the sight.  Now is not the time to be laughing at Fareeha, or to even seem to be so.

(Generally, Fareeha and Angela are of a similar temperament, and this serves them well, helps them to get along.  But sometimes, their similar senses of humor work against them, and one or the other will find something amusing at the absolute worst time.  When they are in a meeting together and _both_ trying not to laugh at a bit of spinach in Lena’s teeth, it is all well and good to find such childish things amusing, but during a conversation like this, such is not the case.)

“Alright,” Fareeha says, “I can agree that, theoretically, fundamental incompatibilities are, by definition, a deal-breaker in any relationship.  But why bring it up now?  It’s not exactly relevant.”

She does not say _Unless there is something you would like to tell me,_ but the implication is evident in her tone.  There are, in fact, a few things about herself that Angela has not told Fareeha, that she worries might be something that cannot be overlooked by a partner, but those are not really the subject of this conversation.

(They are things that she will mention, in time, when it is appropriate to do so, when she is ready—they are not things that involve misleading Fareeha, so much as they involve Angela’s fundamental discomfort with sharing certain things about herself, even with her closest friends.  If the time comes that it is relevant, Angela will tell Fareeha that she is trans, and if there is a fallout from that, then she will deal with it when the time comes.  She is not willing to out herself just to find out, however.) 

“There are a few things,” Angela says, “That might be an issue.”  Fareeha raises one eyebrow, at that, but allows Angela to continue without interrupting her. 

For once, Angela wishes Fareeha would interrupt.  There must be a straight line between what it is she ahs said so far and what it is she wants to say, but her thoughts are so tangled that she cannot find it.  “I just think…” she starts, stops, “There are some things we’ve mentioned…” That is not quite right either, and she is glad that she waited until after she was mostly done eating to broach this topic, else her dinner would be going cold before her.

Clearly, the logical approach is failing her.  If one cannot trace the rational progression of one’s conclusions then one cannot lead another to the same conclusion.  So what is the heart of the matter?  What are the _feelings_ behind her thoughts, the ones which are making the saying of this so difficult?

Several more false starts, and then she gives in, resolves to give voice to what it is that has truly brought her here.

Her voice is smaller than she likes, but she manages to say it, the emotional truth behind her rational argument, and it is simply this: “I’m afraid I won’t live up to your expectations.”

“What?” Fareeha is confused now, clearly, “Angela, I don’t _have_ any expectations.”

“You do,” Angela insists, despite knowing that Fareeha hates it when people try to tell her how to feel.  Already, this conversation is going to be difficult enough for the two of them to navigate, and now here she is, making it worse by inadvertently doing one of the things Fareeha hates most.  “I’m sorry,” she amends quickly, “You _might_ have expectations that you aren’t aware of, rather, assumptions so fundamental that you aren’t consciously aware of them.  It’s a common problem, in experiments.”

“A relationship isn’t an experiment,” Fareeha says, and Angela _knows_ that, she does, and Fareeha must, surely, know that Angela knows—it is just that, when Angela is uncomfortable, she cannot help but revert to thinking of things like she would in the lab, trying to reduce things to a procedure, because in that type of situation she is comfortable, knows what to do with herself.  But with something like this?  She is uncertain.

(Uncertainty scares most people, of course.  But even if Angela can accept that her fear is normal, she cannot simply will it away, or see it as anything less than a personal failing.  If she were truly so smart as other people make her out to be, then how is it that she cannot navigate something so simple as this conversation?  From herself, Angela expects nothing less than perfection, and this?  This is far, far less.)

Correctly assuming that Angela has nothing to say in response to that, no argument or explanation, Fareeha addresses the rest of what Angela said, before the offending use of the word experiment, “What do you think it is that I’m not aware I’m expecting?  Because I’m happy the way things are, really.”

Angela wants to say, _Clearly that is not so,_ because if Fareeha were satisfied with the way things were, then she would not be interested in pursuing anything deeper than what it is they have now, would be happy to stay friends, to live in this in between where they feel things but give no voice to them, and thus the second meaning beneath their actions goes unremarked upon, and they are shielded from any potential hurt by virtue of risking nothing. 

Instead, what Angela says is this, a question: “What would change, for you, if we were in a relationship?”

This is the simplest way, surely.  Yes, Angela knows already what their stumbling blocks will likely be, knows what it is that she imagines Fareeha expects that she may not be able to offer—but it would be an assumption, too, on her part, if she told Fareeha that she must want such things from Angela.  Perhaps Fareeha truly does not want anything more than what they have in the moment, wants only for the language they use to change; that, Angela could abide by.

(In fact, Angela could abide by far more changing.  Her worry is not for herself, not truly, there is little Fareeha could deny her that would change how it is that Angela feels.  But, she imagines, there is much Fareeha might want that she is not yet ready to give, not yet able, and so it is Fareeha she worries for, Fareeha’s happiness.  All that Fareeha does, she does whole-heartedly, and Angela cannot imagine a relationship will be any different.  It would not be fair to Fareeha, to let her dedicate herself to Angela only to find that the same dedication could not be offered her in return.)

“I don’t know,” Fareeha says, and that is both the best answer Angela could hear and the worst.  She does not _know?_  What can Angela do with that?  “We’d both have to decide—well, that’s the point of a relationship, isn’t it?  Two people are involved in the decision making.”

“I suppose so,” Angela concedes, “But you must have some idea of what it would be like, or you wouldn’t want anything to change at all.”

Fareeha frowns, at this, “There are things that would be nice,” says she, “In the future.  Ideally, I’d like to be married someday, and maybe raise a child, if I have the time.  But that’s not something I’d consider doing for years, and obviously it would depend on what my partner wanted.  I think if I really loved someone—I’d be okay with not being married, if they hated the idea.  And obviously your partner needs to be on board for having kids.”

“I don’t know how I feel about marriage,” Angela says, honestly, “And I doubt I would make a very good mother.”

(Angela loves children, she does, and she has always wanted to adopt, but wanting something and believing that it is a good idea are two very different things.  As she is right now, she knows that she is not ready for something like parenthood, and she cannot guarantee that such will change, in the coming years, cannot promise that she will ever feel happy or safe enough to trust herself to care for another person’s life outside of her work.)

“Well, like I said—those are things I’d maybe want in the future,” Fareeha says, “And not even necessarily with you.  Just—whoever I end up with long term.  If we’re still together in two years we can talk about that stuff but right now?  I don’t know that I really want much that’s different from what we have.”

Angela tries not to show on her face just how relieved she is to hear that, Fareeha saying _If we’re still together._

One of her major worries is this: all of this is very new to her.  For the vast majority of her life, Angela has not particularly wanted to settle down with anyone, has been perfectly content to have short term relationships, or none at all.  It is possible that this has changed, in the past few years or so, for both the life she leads and she herself have changed greatly in that time, but paired, too, with this sudden attraction to Fareeha—a _woman_ —Angela worries that it will not last, worries that, somehow, she will wake up one day and realize this was all ridiculous, that it was only a fear of entering into middle age alone that brought her hear, or the intense loneliness of being here, in the Recall, and realizing that faces once familiar are now strangers.

(Deep down, she doubts this is the case, doubts that she will ever decide that this was a mistake, even if she and Fareeha part ways.  What she feels now is real—but she is afraid, still, of what it might mean, and is afraid, too, because it feels so sudden, realizing only now that she is attracted to women.  Things that come suddenly always feel temporary, at least in the beginning.)

So it is a comfort, to know that Fareeha is well aware that no matter how close they are now, no matter how well suited they may seem, things between them may still not lat.  Some of the pressure there is gone—there are other reasons why this may not work, ones far more mundane than the fear that she may e somehow using Fareeha without either of them knowing it.

“Alright,” Angela agrees, “Revisiting those issues at a later date seems reasonable enough, to me.  But are you sure you wouldn’t want anything else to change?”

“Not really?”  Something in the way Fareeha says it makes it sound almost like a question.  “I mean, we _did_ sort of skip most of the usual steps, in a relationship, and jumped straight into a level of emotional intimacy that I’m… going to need time to adjust to.”

“How so?”  If they are doing the same thing they always have, what could there possibly be to adjust _to_?

“Well,” Fareeha draws out the l for a moment too long, “It’s one thing to have that sort of friendship, and another to have that in a relationship, right?  So I’m just… going to need a little time to adjust to the idea of what everything means, now.  Having the groundwork for that kind of intimacy in a friendship doesn’t mean we’ve got the same groundwork for a romantic relationship yet, so I don’t want to just—jump in, and not be ready for that.”

Angela is certain she does not follow, not entirely, but going slowly suits her own needs and desires well enough, so she is not about to question Fareeha as to why she feels that way—not right now, at least.  Not when she has other, more pressing questions on her mind, such as:

“Would you want sex?”

Fortunately for Angela, Fareeha is just about the _only_ person on base who appreciates her bluntness when it comes to such matters, and does not seem at all perturbed by the question.  If anything, she seems relieved by the directness, this time, “Eventually, yes.  I think it’d be for the best to determine which aspects of our relationship have been friendly and which have been romantic before we start having sex but—yes.  It’s been an important part of my previous relationships.”

An important part—well, that worries Angela, just a bit.  “And if I wasn’t interested?”

Fareeha’s face tightens in confusion, “Wouldn’t you be?”

“Not necessarily,” Angela says, not to be vague but because that is, in fact, the best answer she can give right now.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Fareeha says, and Angela can tell by her voice that she is trying very hard not to sound judgmental, “But I was under the impression that your previous relationships were purely sexual.”

“They were,” Angela confirms, because that was in fact the case, for most of them.  “But I haven’t been actively interested in pursuing a relationship for some time, and I don’t want to assume that I will be again, simply because we’re becoming romantically involved.”

“Oh,” says Fareeha, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Angela asks.  Surely, that cannot be _all_.

Fareeha spreads her hands in front of her, non-committal, “I need some time to think about it.  But as long as you’re not saying you find me, specifically, unappealing—”

“I’m not!” Angela interjects, because Fareeha is incredibly beautiful, and Angela would never want to so much as imply that Fareeha might be _unattractive_ , somehow.

“—Then I don’t have any immediate objection.  I’ll need to consider whether or not I’m okay with a relationship that might never become sexual, because I think it’s—I like expressing intimacy that way, and I don’t think I’d want to be celibate indefinitely.  But it’s not necessarily a hard no, if you decide you definitely aren’t interested.  But again, I wouldn’t want to be having sex _immediately_ anyway, so we have time to figure it out.”

“In the short-term, then,” Angela asks, for clarification, “You wouldn’t want anything to change?”

“No,” Fareeha confirms.

“Nothing at all?”  Angela needs to be _certain_ , before she dares hope that this might go well, needs to know for sure that she is not getting ahead of herself, that she is not setting Fareeha up for certain unhappiness, somehow, by pursuing this.

“Not really,” Fareeha says, “We’ve already basically been in a relationship for some time so at first I’d like to just… do what we’ve been doing?  We might hold hands more, or be more affectionate in front of people, but other than saying we’re dating, I wouldn’t—”

 _Oh,_ thinks Angela, _Oh no._

“You’d want to tell people?”

“What,” Fareeha asks, “That we’re dating?”  Angela nods her confirmation, “Well, of course.  I mean—you wouldn’t?”

How to say this kindly?  “I’m not sure that I’m comfortable with…” She cannot even say it directly, not even to Fareeha.  “You’re the only one who knows I’m not straight.”

One of Fareeha’s hands covers hers, in a way that is meant to be comforting but does not feel so, all of a sudden, and Angela forces herself to make eye contact with Fareeha, because she knows that it is what Fareeha will want.

“I know that this is relatively new to you,” Fareeha tells her, gently, “And you may not want everyone to know just yet, but—you don’t mean you’d want us to keep quiet about this _indefinitely_ , do you?”

“I… would prefer that,” Angela says, and she means it.  What business is it of anyone else’s?  Her sexuality and romantic history should matter only to herself and to potential partners, surely.

“Oh,” says Fareeha, and her tone says everything.

 _Oh_ , so very final and resigned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:D
> 
> anyway, comments are, as always, appreciated. esp after my long hiatus LMAO i need reassurance that ppl are still enjoying this. like ill finish even if u all hate it bc im a stubborn bastard but encouragement is nice
> 
> anyway, hope uve been doin great since my last update <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whats good yall the person ive been kinda in love w for eight yrs asked me out and now we have a date??? so i guess updating a slow burn fic is appropriate

Certain things, once said, can never be unsaid, still linger in the air between two people years later, a sort of tension unspoken always simmering beneath the surface.  One hears them, late at night, when sleep is elusive, plays them over and over again in one’s head.  They are there, at the corner of one’s mind in quiet moments, always there, and no matter how hard one tries to push them away, there they will stay.

Fareeha is intimately familiar with such statements, having made more than a few herself.  These days, not many people would consider her hotheaded, but she was, once, was reckless, was brash, spoke too much and thought too little.  Now, she has to live with the consequences of that.

Her father, she was cruel to.  Perhaps unintentionally, but she was nonetheless, was dismissive of the fact that he, too, struggled, was too quick to assume that he knew nothing of what it was she was experiencing, and therefore spoke to him far too harshly.  Many people argued with their parents as teenagers, she knows, but she still feels guilt, nonetheless, is painfully aware that hers was not the usual teenage angst, that she hated her father for being so very _ordinary_ , unlike her mother, and for wanting that ordinariness for her, too—and, worse, resented him, sometimes, for his disability, for the ways in which it shaped both their lives, wanted him at once to be more extraordinary and more normal.

She knows, now, that disability _is_ normal, knew it then, too, if she is honest with herself.  But she was not as kind as she should have been, not as patient, not as understanding, and she does not excuse or forgive her younger self for that.  It was wrong of her, she will admit, and although she has apologized, and her father ahs forgiven her, the past is not undone.  They are on good terms, now, and Sam, too, has apologized for things he said, and for underestimating her, for doubting her conviction, for dismissing her desire to join Overwatch as little more than childish hero worship, a desire to be like her mother.

(That she did desire to be more like her mother is beyond the point.  Her reasons for having such a wish are not the same as he assumed, perhaps, but he was not wrong, not entirely.  All her life, Fareeha has been shaped by her mother, even when she has tried to avoid such a thing.  It is all anyone sees in her—the name Amari.  She chose this, when she rejected her father’s name and took her mother’s as her own, and he tried to warn her, he did, what this would mean, but she was too proud to listen, too foolish, too stubborn.  Once, she wanted so badly to be like Ana, and now?  Now she cannot escape her.)

Things are better, now, but that does not mean her words have gone away, or his, does not mean that they have not forever shaped the people the two of them are today, and the relationship they have.

Changed forever, too, is her relationship with her mother.  What she said to Ana was no accident, no slip of the tongue, she _meant_ it when she said that she would rather be no one than be Ana’s daughter, if that was what it would take for her to fulfill her dreams.  Her last name she kept out of spite, but for a time, she truly resented her mother, and for what?  The crime of trying to protect her?  For loving her too much?

Fareeha also loved Ana too much, she knows this now, held her to an impossible standard, because for so long she believed that her mother _was_ better than everyone, could do no wrong.  When Ana faltered, which she inevitably did, perfection being ultimately unattainable, Fareeha was all the more unkind to her for it, could not understand how her mother, always so perfect in her eyes, could be so suddenly closeminded, so intractable, so unable (unwilliing?) to see any point of view but her own.

Perhaps she loved her mother too much, too.  And for that, they both suffered, both pushed the other away, because they could not bend, could not compromise, and did not know how to back down, to take back words said in anger.

So Fareeha knows a thing or two about the power of words, about how easily a handful of words can alter the course of a relationship, a lifetime, forever. 

But what she knows about such a phenomenon is limited to anger, to her troubled relationships with her parents, and ex-lovers.  What she knows nothing about is the predicament she finds herself in now, where the words that have so inexorably changed the course of her life are, ostensibly, good ones.

She loves Angela.  Angela loves her.  It is simple, and it is known.

If they were any other two people, meeting in any other circumstances, that might be that.  Love is a good thing, after all, a powerful one, is something that can change one’s life for the better. 

 _Can._  

Fareeha is not naïve enough to believe that love conquers all, not foolish enough to think that there are not other circumstances in which she might meet someone with whom she might fall in love and be powerless to act upon that feeling.  Some people are separated from their loves by marriage, by war, by duty, by wealth and by disease.  Far be it from Fareeha to claim that her circumstance is in any way unique, and as much as it hurts, Fareeha does not believe that Angela Ziegler is her _true_ love either, for one person can have many loves in one’s lifetime, all of which have the power to bring out different parts of a person. 

But she is _in love_ with Angela, and Angela is in love with her, and they do not have any of the usual barriers between them, not now, are neither of them married, or dying, or otherwise dedicated to some pursuit which would demand of them that they set aside all other passions, including love, and it feels like things _ought_ to work between them, for that reason.

Their schedules are similar, their values are similar, their feelings are similar.  But for three things, they could be happy together, would be, right now.

Even now, knowing that things will not progress further than they did, a single impulsive kiss, and a dinner full of expectation, Fareeha feels it in the air, the weight of Angela having said to her _I’m in love with you_ , the ache of knowing that even then, thinking things would surely work out, she was too cautious to respond in kind.

Like so many other early mornings, they are sitting, the two of them, in the communal kitchen.  Fareeha is having coffee after her morning run, still sweaty and somehow not yet fully awake, and Angela is puttering around behind her, tending to what are ostensibly the team’s plants, and are, more accurately, Angela’s plants that happen to stay in a common area.  They are not talking much, for neither of them has much of anything to say, so early in the morning, Fareeha having not slept well the night before, and Angela most likely having not slept at all, given how late it was when the other strike team returned last night, in need of medical assistance.

What they said hangs between them in the air, creates a sort of tension entirely different from what was there only a few weeks before.  Where once there was heady expectation, and unspoken feeling, there is now only this: a sort of quiet mourning for something that never quite was.

Fareeha hates it, has always hated silence, and hates _this_ sort of silence in particular.  Is this what they are to each other now?  Ships that passed in the night?  Just the knowledge of what might have been, something entirely useless and still somehow unpleasant to be reminded of?

Silence is not a good thing, not in their line of work.  Silence means not knowing where the enemy is coming from, means that they are planning something, means that things are about to get worse, so Fareeha cannot stand for it.

(Or, this she tells herself.  Her aversion to silence is truthfully much older, but now, at least, she has a _name_ for the feeling it instills in her, the fear, the anticipation, the spike of adrenaline she gets when she feels that the reason someone is saying nothing to her is because the only thing they _could_ say is too terrible to put into words.)

So, unable to suffer the silence any longer, Fareeha breaks it the only way she can think to.

“Are you seriously putting fish on your bagel?” asks she, because really, the salmon Angela has out hardly looks _cooked_ , let alone appetizing.

“Yes?” Angela looks up from the ficus she is tending to, and looks at Fareeha as if she finds the question confusing.  “Do you not put lachs on bagels?”

“Honestly, I prefer my fish cooked,” Fareeha says, and while it is true that she will eat sushi now and again, that is prepared by a trained chef, and not made at home.  To her, this seems like a one way trip to food poisoning, and she feels that, as a doctor, Angela ought to know better.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Angela gives the ficus one last appraising look before coming to sit on the stool opposite where Fareeha is standing, her questionable breakfast on the counter between them.  “It’s brined.  See?”  As if it proved something, Angela uses a fork to hold the salmon up for Fareeha’s inspection. 

Although she knows from what her father has taught her that her people used to eat fish raw, on the day that they were caught, did not permit themselves to cook the fish where it was killed, she will still be damned if she is going to eat any sort of meat that has not obviously been put in an oven, or cooked over a flame.  This has been neither, and so she changes the subject, “Alright,” says she, “But on a _bagel_?”

“It’s the correct way,” Angela says, and, putting the fish on top of her bagel, takes a bite, as if to prove her point.  She takes her time in chewing, as if considering, and then, when she has half-finished her bagel, looks up at Fareeha and asks, very expectantly, “Well?”

Well what?  “Eating it in front of me isn’t going to change my mind about how well-cooked the fish is,” says Fareeha, unsure what else Angela could mean.

The right corner of Angela’s mouth turns down slightly in the way it always does when she is frustrated by her own inability to communicate what it is she means, “Not the _fish_ ,” she sets the remainder of her breakfast down, pushes it to the side so that nothing is left between the two of them, “You were watching me.”

Something about that feels like an accusation to Fareeha, although she knows Angela does not mean it that way—likely the result of too many years worrying about whether or not her advances towards women were unwelcome, the fear of seeming predatory.  She does not _watch_ people, as a result, is very careful not to, hates the feeling of being stared at and more so fears being the one who stares, “I wasn’t watching you,” says she, “You sat in my line of sight.”

Technically true, although she was observing Angela before then, watching how gently she tends to the plants, the slight furrow in her brow as she considers the wetness of the soil, and which leaves are dead enough to remove.  Observing is not _watching_ , in Fareeha’s mind, is lacking in the connotations, and anyway, she was mostly lost in thoughts, and not really focused on Angela at present at all.

(Rather, she was instead focused on Angela in general, Angela in some maybe future, Angela is in the recent past.)

“I’m sorry,” Angela says, clearly able to read Fareeha’s discomfort even if she has no way of knowing its origin, “I only meant that—was there something you wanted to say?  Not about the fish?”

It is so very like Angela to specify, again, that this has nothing to do with the salmon that Fareeha almost, _almost_ chuckles, except—is there something she wants to say?

Yes, that she, too, loves Angela, very much so, that she too is _in love with_ Angela, as it were, and that she wants to be with Angela, too, would love to be, honestly, if only she believed that they could be happy together, if only she were willing to entertain the idea of a life lived closeted—moving slowly she would prefer, and not having sex she thinks she might learn to live with, but to hide an essential part of herself?  To keep secret her love?  That would kill her.

No, she does not want to say anything, for what good would come from speaking about any of this?  What would be gained?  What benefit is there to saying such a thing, when she knows that it will go nowhere.

What she wants, truly, is for things to be unsaid, so that they can go back to the way that they were—happy, before, and longing, maybe, but with hope, still.

“I…” starts she, and stops herself, and barely resists the urge to bite her lip, instead grips the counter harder, hopes that Angela will not look down to notice.  “There wasn’t—” she wants to lie to Angela, to say that it was nothing, really, that she is just tired, that is all, and not deep in thought.  But a lie of omission is a lie nonetheless, and Angela is always so very _painfully_ truthful. 

A deep breath.  Is Fareeha not brave?  She is, she _knows_ she is, has had to be.  So what good in there is running from this.

“It wasn’t something I wanted to say,” says she, after a pause.

One of Angela’s hands moves to cover hers, a mirroring of Fareeha’s own habits that is almost painfully transparent. 

(Angela is not good at comforting people, so she says, and it is _true_ , she has no innate knack for it, hugs far too awkwardly, her elbows sharp in Fareeha’s sides, and avoids eye contact even when it would be for the best, lets silences linger far too long.  But she tries very hard to be good at it, and obviously cares very much, and in the end, that she tries, and is patient even as Fareeha falters, is often somehow more comforting than the more practiced attempts of others.)

“But it was something, yes?”

Fareeha does not nod, because she does not need to.  Angela already knows.

“Would you hate me,” asks she, “If I said I wanted something _un_ said?”

Here is something good, at least: she and Angela have spent so long speaking around their feelings that she need not specify to what, specifically, she is referring.

“No,” says Angela, almost too swiftly, as if she, too, has thought the same.  “I couldn’t hate you,” and then a confession of her own, “And I couldn’t fault you, either.  I shouldn’t have—I knew it was a risk, to say it.”

It was.  It was, and yet Fareeha cannot blame her for having taken that risk, for having dared to dream that perhaps, in some other, better life, they might be happy together.  It was a risk that Fareeha herself wanted to take, time and again, and only did not because she was afraid, not of rejection but of love.

It was wrong of her, to fear the best outcome, and in so doing completely ignore the consequences of the worst one.

“I just want to go back,” says she, rather than touching on any of the things she is really feeling, all of them messy, all of them painful, all of them tangled up in her, thoughts of how she might have done better, how things might have been better, but she cannot—to be closeted is the one thing she cannot do.  It would kill her, she knows, to try and hide any part of herself, particularly the most important one.  Love is not something to be hidden, and Fareeha does not want to feel like she is a dirty secret.

And she would feel that way, regardless of Angela’s actual intent in staying closeted, knows that she would.  It would feel like a rejection, and after all that she has been through, she could not abide by that, feeling like her lover had so rejected her.  It would destroy her, and it would be unfair to either of them, because she knows, too, that to push Angela to come out would be immoral, would be unethical, would be something too cruel to do to any human being, least of all one whom she purports to love.

So what she wants is to go back, to unfeel all the things she has felt, in these past few weeks, to think that her feelings for Angela are futile and to move on.  To get over a crush, or a failed relationship, is far easier than to move past something that only ever almost was.

Will Angela understand this?  She does not know, for the two of them have very different approaches to their emotions, their lives, their ability to grieve.  Angela mourns, yes, but not like anyone else Fareeha has ever known, and it is impossible for Fareeha to imagine what it is Angela is feeling, now.  Disappointment, likely, and sadness, yes, but the way Angela expresses those things—it is almost as if she does not allow herself to acknowledge she is feeling them, as if by not giving name to an emotion its impact would diminish.

As if on cue, Angela responds, then, “I don’t see why we couldn’t.  We’re still friends, aren’t we?”

They are, of course they are.  They were friends before this, this almost love, and they will be afterwards, and Fareeha does not doubt that, not for a moment.  Angela is too important to her to not be a part of her life in some way, in any way that they can make work.  If they never have anything more than this moment together, Fareeha knows she will still cherish what it has been, to be Angela’s friend, to be her almost lover, to be whatever it is they are now, because even in so short a time she has allowed Angela to shape her, to change the way she views herself, her place in the world.  When they have challenged each other’s perspectives, Fareeha has learned, rather than feeling disrespected.  When they have spoken of their pasts, Angela has finally given Fareeha something she has so long desired—the ability to stand on her own, to be seen as a person wholly separate from her mother.  When they have leaned on one another for comfort, Fareeha has felt more at peace than she imagined she ever would again, and has come to learn that perhaps it does not matter if she is _well,_ if she is _whole_ , so long as, in the moment, she is feeling as best as she is able. 

So yes, “Of course we’re still friends,” they are as much as Angela will allow them to be, for as long as they can be, so far as Fareeha is concerned.

No, she cannot be in a relationship with Angela, not if it means being closeted, because she knows it would be bad for her health, would be bad for both of them, would be anathema to their happiness in the long term.  But anything else?

Anything but that, anything but the thing she wants most.

Fareeha can content herself with this much. 

“It’s settled,” Angela tells her, “Nothing needs to change,” and her smile is so warm, so genuine, that Fareeha does not know how to say that _of course_ things are different, that they will still know what was done, still know what was said, still know what was felt.  That is the way of things. 

For Angela, things are so black and white, so simple, if not easy.  If they say that nothing need change, then it will be so.  If they say everything is fine, then it will be.  Why would she think otherwise?  Angela only ever says what she means, and does not know what it is to regret, as Fareeha has, the things she has said, does not know how these things have a way of sticking.

But that is okay.  In time, Fareeha knows, Angela will come to learn, come to know that certain things cannot be undone, feelings cannot be unfelt, facts cannot be unlearned, and she knows, too, that it will be a painful realization, and so she does not say anything of the sort.

(But maybe it will not be so, for Angela, who is so able to _make_ herself feel things, at least on the surface.  If she does not acknowledge her deeper feelings, then it is almost as if they are not there, are not troubling her, until she forgets, for a moment, how it is she thinks she is meant to be feeling.  Maybe, for Angela, being content with what she has is as simple as saying that it is so, and not allowing herself to look inwards long enough to realize that she feels any differently.  Maybe Angela can think she is happy, with the way things are, and experience any unhappiness with this state of being as a sort of fermented melancholy so detached from the source that she will not know why it is she is sad, will simply be overwhelmed by it, at once, in the quiet hours, and not know why it is she feels that way, not ever connect that sadness to the state of their relationship, and believe that otherwise, that strange moment of longing aside, she is truly content with what she has.  Fareeha is at once jealous of that ability to compartmentalize and grateful for her own clarity of thought.)

And in time, she is certain, she will content herself with this, too, in her own way.  Yes, she will have to mourn it, will have to actually experience her feelings, in the present, will not be able to run from them, like Angela might, and has no desire to run, besides—but what would it hurt, to allow herself the pleasure of pretending, when she is with Angela, that nothing has changed?  What would it hurt to move over to Angela’s side of the counter, to settle in next to her, to sit, again, so close that their knees bump together, and to pretend that neither of them feel it, the electricity of touch?

Nothing.  It would hurt nothing.

It is pleasant, the rest of their breakfast, passes without incident as they talk about everything and nothing, just the way they used to do, pretending that their fingers do not touch a moment too long when Angela passes Fareeha the sugar, Angela’s eyes darting away the moment they lock on to Fareeha’s, as if any contact were too much, both of them happy to be around each other, to be _near_ to each other, to simply exist in the same time and the same place, and neither of them saying why.

It is perfect, the rest of their breakfast.  Not awkward, really, if a little charged.  They were friends before anything else, and friends they can still be, even if Fareeha can never forget what lies beneath that friendship, can never forget what it was meant to be, or nearly was. 

Because she does not _have_ to forget, Angela taught her that.  She does not have to not feel pain, to be as happy as is possible in the moment.  And maybe it sounds sad, to say that such is what Fareeha is striving for, to be as happy as she is able, but it is true.

And she is able to be happy, she is, she _is._

When Angela tries to tell her a joke, but is too busy laughing halfway through to finish it, the sadness might be there, somewhere, but Fareeha’s laughter is genuine, too.  The joke itself is not funny, but watching Angela try to finish it as she snorts too hard to get out the punchline _is_ , and that laugh—the one Fareeha knows Angela is too embarrassed to let anyone else hear—is infectious.

When she reaches to clean a small smear of cream cheese from the corner of Angela’s mouth, she thinks nothing of it, does not even realize what she is doing until her thumb has already brushed Angela’s lips, and it is not awkward, somehow.  If Angela flushes a little, if she looks even further away than normal, if Fareeha pulls her arm back just a bit more quickly than she might normally, what of it?  She still felt free to reach out, to touch Angela like that, and to know that it was neither romantic nor sexual, was born of the genuine affection they harbor for one another that transcends such things, such petty boundaries as relationships.

When she confesses to Angela, quietly, a whisper in her ear before leaving the kitchen, voice low to ensure that Satya, who has joined them now, will not overhear—she means what she says.  And what she says is this: She is glad for their discussion earlier, because she enjoyed breakfast, and they should meet in the mornings more often, rather than only late at night.

(It is easier, like this, in the light of day, to push away anything she does not want to be feeling, to ignore any sort of wanting, to know that this is only ever going to be what they have now—and it is enough, so she tells herself.  It is.  She will learn to content herself with only friendship, and be grateful for the good things she has, rather than focusing on what she has not.  To do so in the daylight is simple, even if she knows too well that after dusk the task will not be so simple.)

It is easy, and she is happy, and breakfast is lovely, it is, it _is._

So why, then, does she keep wondering if maybe she would be happier if she compromised?  Why, then, is she wondering if, maybe, sex does not matter at all, and going slow is good—and keeping things quiet is something she could adjust to?

Why does she feel like, if she told herself it was okay for long enough, that it did not matter if no one knew, because _she_ did, and she could have Angela, then she could be happier like that?

Why can she not simply be content?

Certain things, once thought, can never be unthought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway yeah hope u enjoy. been busy but im back!! maybe!!! no real promises
> 
> hope ur day is going great!!!!!! mine is bc the person ive kinda been in love w for eight yrs who has been "joking" abt us getting married and moving in together... since 2011... asked me on a date For Real. so thats a slower burn than this fic LMFAO


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **cw: some mentions of institutionalized misogyny** , its all incredibly vague & didnt happen to a char in the fic, but u can skip from "they took this: her identity as..." to "they took this: her youth" if u dont want to read abt militaries being a not-so-great place for women to work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> got home from my gfs yesterday at like... noon? and wrote this... so dyke rights!
> 
> PATCH NOTES 3/11/2019  
> IM FUCKING DUMB AND DIDNT NOTICE I MISSED 1K WORDS WHEN I CTRL+C'D THIS CHAPTER IN. PLEASE ENJOY AN EXTRA 1K WORDS THAT MAKE THIS MAKE SENSE

If one were asked, one could, likely, list off the qualities which are, in one’s own opinion, one’s best.  For each of those qualities, one could also likely name one or more persons who would disagree, would say that one is _too much_ one thing or _too little_ of another.  This is not so abnormal, and really, should not be cause for concern.  After all, it is inevitable, in the course of a lifetime, that some people will consider one’s best qualities one’s worst.  Thus is the nature of people.  Different people value different things in different degrees, and express said things differently.

For the most part, that is fine.  Diversity is important, is what makes life interesting, is what ensures that new ideas are brought forth, that progress is made, that one does not live a monotonous, homogenous life.

Of course, some people rather like monotony.

Angela is such a one.

Not the monotony of homogeny, mind.  Angela can scarcely remember a time when she felt she was wholly in the majority, or surrounded by a group of people like herself—not since her hometown was destroyed when she was seven years old and she found herself thrust abruptly into a much broader, goyische world—and for the most part, that is fine by her.  Although she believes her way is the right way for herself, except in terms of ethics, she does not attempt to impose her will on others, and does not mind having her view challenged, even enjoys it, from time to time.

But she likes a different sort of monotony, that of routine.  Once she finds a way she likes doing things, that feels comfortable for herself, she sees little point in changing it, is quite content to rise at the same time every day for as long as she is able, is content to wear the same style of clothes for nearly two decades, is content to eat the same fourteen dinners on a two week rotating schedule, with some exceptions for major holidays.  That is comfortable, for her, to have a schedule to know what it is she does and when, to know how it is things ought to be done.  At the end of a long day, she does not want to have to worry about what to cook, or what to wear tomorrow, or when she is meant to report to the lab.  All of that is taken care of by maintaining a schedule.

(And it is a comfort of another sort, too.  On the days when she cannot think at all, when her mind is far, far away, she can still go through the motions, and no one will ever question her, no one will see that anything is amiss.  Things will continue on as they always have, and all will be well.  No one need worry about her, and she need not worry about giving herself away—because she ought to be adjusted to her work, by now, ought to be able to handle it.  And she _can_ , she can, if she does things the right way, follows her little comforting routines, and tells herself that as long as she can still do that then she ahs everything she needs to survive and be happy.  That survival and happiness are not synonymous is hard to imagine, for someone who has been merely surviving since they still had half of their baby teeth.)

To Angela, this is one of her strengths.  It means she is dependable, as a person, means she is always on time—early even—is always prepared for what comes next, and her coworkers know that she is going to continue to be.  After all, who could question  the competence of a woman whose life seems to carry on like clockwork?

And is that not ideal?

(To be human is important, of course, Angela knows, to have some warmth to reassure her patients, but that is enough.  To know that she is not a machine, that she is a living, breathing thing—well, that approaches another sort of issue, but Angela thinks that she understands, some days, why before the Crisis omnics had all but replaced human doctors.  In her line of work, one cannot afford mistakes, and if her work, her life seems almost as precise as that of something that does not err, that most human of actions, is that not for the best?)

She would say it is one of her best qualities, her dependableness, her penchant for routine.

Some would agree.  Some have praised her for it, have said that she can be counted on when no one else can, have joked that they could set their watch to her activities, have suggested that knowing that she is always going to be the same sort of person brings them comfort in chaotic times.

Some have called her intractable, instead.  Some have said that she is unable—unwilling—to examine other points of view, to accept that her way is not the best way.

She would, of course, disagree.  She _does_ consider others’ points of view, but not every opinion is of equal value.  She is not going to give any sort of credence to the ideals of Moira and the like by pretending that they stand on even footing in a moral debate, for there is no debate to be had.  Which way is more ethical can hardly be a question when one party believes that ethics are a hindrance to progress.

But, except in extreme cases, she does _try_ to see what it is that others are trying to say, when they argue against her, tries to understand why it is that they believe so differently than she.

Religion, they will not budge her on.  Ethics are too tied to religion to gain much ground with either.  But other things?

New foods, she will try.  New methods of notetaking, if someone tells her that they will be more accessible to others, are adopted.  New terms, she has begun to use, when she has been told that some of the things she learned in medical school were not used by the communities they were meant to describe.

Intractable she is not.  Really.

However, there are some things she does find difficult to accept.  The list ranges from dietary choices to use of force to prioritization of funding, but right now she finds that more than anything, she is focused on one difference of opinion above all, and it stems from this issue:

Fareeha will not date someone who is closeted.

To Angela, this seems ridiculous.  Many people are closeted, and many of the people they _know_ are closeted, albeit to varying degrees.  Now, most people know Jesse is bi, it is true, but that was not always the case, and the public at large, having no reason to have ever asked him, given that he has always been more _in_ famous than anything else, is clueless.  Mei, who is a good friend to the both of them, only uses pronouns when discussing past lovers with people whom she trusts.  Most obvious of all, Fareeha’s own mother was bisexual, and never directly addressed the matter one way or another.  If people asked, she would answer, and to people who knew her well enough to know her affairs it was relatively apparent, but most people simply assumed that because she had had a husband that she must be straight, and Ana certainly never went out of her way to correct that misconception, for whatever reason.

(That Fareeha’s decision to be out may in some way be in response to her mother’s own relationship with her sexuality truthfully does not occur to Angela, who knows nothing of what it is to have a complicated relationship with one’s mother, or to be shaped by one’s parents’ choices.)

But, evidently, Fareeha disagrees.  To her, it is vitally important that if she is dating someone, they be out.

That Angela has no intention to come out is, apparently, not enough to sway her.  This issue is non-negotiable, and it is something that Angela does not, _can_ not understand.

What right has the public to know such a thing about her?  For what reason would she tell them?  They do not need to know that she is—well, she does not know, quite, what she is, in terms of her sexuality, not yet, anyway, does not have enough data, enough time, enough clarity of self to be sure, at the time being, is only just beginning to come to terms with what all this might mean to her. 

(In particular, the public does not need to know that: that she does not know.  Angela always knows things, always.  That is who she is—a genius.  Never in her life has she been without _some_ sort of answer, and her career as a surgeon relies on her certainty, her presence of mind, her quick decision making.  To admit that she does not know something, especially something so personal to herself, would be humiliating, would feel like a failure.  There are _children_ who know better than her to whom they are attracted, and she is not a child.  The chip on her shoulder from having to prove that, having to prove herself in a world that once doubted her for her youth, still lingers, and she rankles when someone even seems to suggest that she might not know something.  Of course she knows!  Of course she is competent!  So to let the public in on this would be to accept a sort of vulnerability that she cannot, _will_ not.  No one owes the world that sort of soul-bearing, least of all her.)

No matter her sexuality, she does not want to share it, not with the press, not with other people, who might mistakenly look up to her, not with people who might see in her an example, might think of her not as a _scientist_ , a doctor, an innovator, a leader in her field, but instead a gay woman.  People ought to see her for her accomplishments, and that is all.  She owes them nothing more.

But how to explain this to Fareeha, who would be happy, to be seen in such a way?  How to tell Fareeha that she has never wanted to be anyone’s _hero_ , in the way Fareeha longed for for so many years?  How to tell Fareeha what the first Overwatch took from her?

They took this: her identity as a woman. 

They took it, and they twisted it, and they made her some figurehead, some token.  Every other head of every other department was a man, but so long as Angela worked for them, they could point to her, and they could say: look, see, we have Captain Amari, and we have Dr. Ziegler, and we have them because they are the best at what they do.  We hire women when we can, we promote them, we are not so sexist as the other militaries that have come before us.  We are _good_.

(That Angela is trans, and that she was not known to them as a woman when they first hired her, fortunately has never become common knowledge.  For Overwatch, it was important enough to maintain her as a shield against accusations of not recruiting or promoting women that they never tried to use _that_ for publicity, a fact for which she is grateful.  She could not have borne that, that scrutiny, and the criticism she knows would have come with it.  Already, it is hard enough for her to accept herself, on her bad days, she does not want to hear that the rest of the world does not believe her to be a real woman either.)

Never matter that Angela knew exactly how _bad_ Overwatch could be, never matter that, aside from disagreeing with them on a number of moral issues, as the head of their medical department she saw more than enough proof of the bad behavior of those in Overwatch’s ranks.  She treated women, after assaults.  She monitored others for signs of abuse.  She helped refer people to abortions, when they believed that a pregnancy would spell the end to their careers.

Overwatch was not _bad_ for women, any more than any other such workplace could be said to be bad for women.  In fact, they might have dealt with those issues better than most places.  But were they _good_ for women?

Not really.

Yet Angela, bound by doctor-patient confidentiality, could say nothing of the sort, could only smile tightly and nod when people said that it was so nice, to see women like Ana and herself in positions of authority and power, could only keep her peace.

(And she could say even less when others suggested that perhaps there were others more suited to her role as Director of Medical Research and Head of Surgery, could only swallow her anger when they said that she had gotten her job over other, more qualified men, because Overwatch needed another woman at the table.  To argue with such people would only be to draw attention to them, but she hated it—and hated more that with every lost patient, every lab failure, she worried that it might have some kernel of truth.)

To be seen as a woman was something Angela always wanted for herself, to be recognized as the correct gender, and Overwatch took that, and twisted it, and now she hates that her womanhood ever made her a symbol at all, wishes she were only her works in the minds of others.

They took this: her youth.

They took it in more ways than one.  In the literal sense, she pledged herself to them when she was only seventeen, promised them her time, what innocence she had left, in the name of their cause, and got nothing in return, aged lifetimes in the span of one afternoon, when they first bade her to kill, and will never, ever have that back, but the greater loss was this: they _used_ that youth to do the same to others, and to absolve themselves of the sins of their generation.

 _Look at the prodigy_ , they said of her, _Look at what the children can do!_ Never matter that she had had no childhood to speak of, not since she was seven years old, she was a child to them, when it helped them push their vision of a better future, one where the next generation would not repeat their mistakes, but an adult when it meant they could demand more of her, push her to do more, to give more, to sacrifice more. 

(Jesse’s youth, they never used in the same way, but they stole it all the same.  He was a child when he committed his crimes with Deadlock, and he would have served time, yes, but not a lifetime, would not have had to endure the death sentence which was working in Blackwatch.  They could have killed him—would have, were it necessary—and only because he was lucky has he the lighter sentence of a lifetime as a pariah.)

With her image, they recruited more and more young people, more to die, more to kill, more to be made to live with the horrors of war, to give all that they have to continue a fight that their parents started. 

Bad enough, that Angela can never have those years of her life back.  Bad enough that she can never imagine whom she would be, without Overwatch, and therefore cannot leave them even now, because the entirety of who she is is inextricably linked to her time with them, and they are the only life she has ever known.

(Yes, she was away from them, after the fall, but that was not freedom, not really, because all anyone ever sees is Overwatch’s golden child, their prodigy, their wunderkind.  The woman she has become is nothing in the face of the myth of the youth she once was.)

All of that would be a problem, in and of itself, would smart, would sting, but what she cannot live with, what she cannot abide by, is the deaths that she feels complicit in.  They _used_ her to appeal to another generation, encouraged others her age to enlist, when the fighting was all done with, because they were working with the Crisis generation to build something better, something greater, an _Overwatch_ generation.

And so many of those people became her patients.  So many of them died.

It is unforgiveable.

They took this: her orphanhood.

It does make for a good story, she has to admit, the poor orphaned girl who watched her parents die, and vowed to never allow the same to happen to another child, ever again.  It is even better PR to say that such a girl—such a _woman_ —who put all her efforts into saving people, to healing others and advancing medical technology, would choose to work for them. 

(That she always was fascinated by medicine, even before her parents died, is inconvenient to their narrative, and glossed over not only by Overwatch but by reporters.  It does not make for a good _story_ , does not sell to opportunistic voyeurs in the same way that her trauma laid bare might.  It does not get views, or engagement, or sympathy donations, but it is the truth—she always liked medicine, and would have tried to pursue it regardless.  Her parents’ deaths directed her efforts towards surgery, and trauma medicine, specifically, and might have hastened the timeline of her studies, but they did not make her the woman she is today, are not the whole of her being, and never have been.)

So, she was made to trot out the story, to tell it over, and over, and over again, mythologizing it, turning the worst event of her life into something to be consumed for the masses, something other people could use in order to generate interest in their cause, and solicit donations, even if she did not want others to know these things about her.  It was worth it, she told herself, because with that money she _could_ save more people, could do more research, could, in fact, help prevent the orphaning of others.

But what a cost!

It is all people see, she knows, to this day.  They see her as an inspirational story, one of a child who lost everything and overcame adversity to become the scientist she is today.  But that is not true, not to her.  Even if she _does_ still have nightmares about that day, even if in some way s it does motivate her, to say that it caused her to become the woman she is?  That is wrong.  And worse, it seems almost to _justify_ her parents’ deaths.

If here parents had to die to do what she did—that would be worth it, yes?

No.  Not at all.  Nothing could be wroth what she has been through, and in any case, she was interested in medicine already.  Who is to say that she would not have accomplished more without having had to overcome that pain, that loss?  Their deaths did not make her stronger, they hurt her, past tense and present, and nothing she does will ever make that loss okay, in her mind, nothing will make it go away.

But that is the story people hear, that their deaths were inspirational, and they think they have that to thank for their lives, not Angela herself.  An act of senseless violence, justified, made palatable for a wide audience.

To think of it sickens her, even now.

Therefore Angela thinks it not unreasonable that she does not want to give any more of herself to the public, does not want them to know anything about her other than what is already known, has already been said.  She thinks it only right that she be able to keep to herself her sexuality, because the public has robbed her of everything else. 

Someone else can be an inspiration to gay people.  Someone else can be seen as _gay_ first and a _hero_ second.  Angela will not be that woman, not again.

(If she could, she would erase all knowledge of herself, save for her last name, her _family_ name, for that much she does owe to her parents.  All people need to know of her is what she has done, and it is all that she wants to be asked about, in interviews, at fundraisers, in conventions, surrounded by her peers.  What is important is her work, not the thing that happened to her, not the youth she surrendered to Overwatch, not even her gender—or, what others know of it.  That all ought to be something kept to herself and herself alone.)

If her unwillingness to consider Fareeha’s view in this seems unreasonable, it is only because she does not like to speak of such things, not to anyone, even Fareeha.

And if that makes her intractable, so be it.

She will keep her routines, she will do things her way, and in this, she will not compromise—cannot, for her own sake.  Not again.  Nothing good will come of it, and she does not feel she owes the world that, not anymore, not when she knows that she can do just as much work, just as much good, without distracting from her greater mission with stories about her _self_.

But as much as Angela is made intractable by her adherence to routine, routine brings her back here, to Fareeha, time and again.

It is evening—an unpleasant one, the anniversary of Angela’s first kill.  All these years later and she can still remember the feeling, the sound, her victim’s face.  Her faith tells her that she has the right to kill in self-defense, and does not have the right to mourn for someone to whom she is so unconnected, but this is no comfort, now, never is.

There are special dispensations for soldiers, but Angela has never thought herself a soldier, has always been a doctor, a healer, a woman who puts the needs and lives of others above herself.  To call herself a soldier solely to absolve herself of this, that would be fundamentally dishonest, would involve lying not only to herself but to her God, and that, she will not do. 

She knows, too, that to kill in self-defense, as she did, is to kill in order to save a life, and anything is permissible, for the preservation of life, the protection of a soul.  This is pikuach nefesh, a principle by which she has lived much of her life, but despite her familiarity with it, despite the fact that she knows that it would certainly apply in this case, would mean that to kill was acceptable, if only in this instant, she cannot accept what she knows to be true.  Even if her soul was of equal value to that of the soldier she would have killed, which would make this acceptable, not a loss but a trade, she could not accept it, but in truth, she does not even believe that to be true. 

How could her life possibly be worth more than someone else’s?  What has she done that has made her more worthy?  She can think of nothing and she knows—she knows that those other losses will be felt more keenly than hers, by more people.  Likely, that soldier had a family, to miss him.  Likely, he had more friends than she.  Likely, he had a love.

All of them, she has robbed of his presence.

(All of them would have something of a right to mourn him, when her God says she has not.  It was not she who was wronged, by his killing, not she who was hurt, by his loss, and it would be arrogant, would be cruel, to put herself among those people, to hold up her pain as level with their own, as somehow being equal, when it was she who took that life from them, she who caused the harm.  She took an oath, once, and it mattered to her then, to do no harm, and she has broken it, but her guilt over that fact will never be equal to the pain of those who were impacted by her actions, whose lives were forever changed by the split second in which she pulled the trigger.  There can be no mourning for her, for it would be a mockery of those who truly are suffering for the loss.)

Knowing she was allowed to kill, however, does not erase her emotions, does not ease her pain.  So on days like today, important anniversaries, like this one, her first kill, she is so very, very aware of the date, and so very aware that for many others, that day will never be the same again, because of what she did—because of what she has subsequently chosen to do, again and again, spurred on by her selfish desire to live, her belief, in moments of panic, that her own fear of death means more than another’s life.  This is how she sees it, and this, she cannot speak about, not even when she tries.  Her guilt, her shame, her fear of perpetuating the harm they have done, and her grief, they render her mute, on days like today, but she would not dare speak even were she capable.

As much as she is able, Angela hides these feelings from everyone, and her shame with them, but late at night, when all the others on the base have gone to look at some astronomic event or another, Fareeha finds her in their usual spot, sits down next to her on the couch—more distantly than she used to, and asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Angela shakes her head, _No_ , cannot even find her voice to say that, although a part of her wants to do so.  Not to anyone else will she speak of this, but for Fareeha, she would consider what it would mean to try. 

But what could she say to Fareeha about this?  To Fareeha whom she loves, Fareeha whom she considers a better person than she, how could she explain what she is feeling?  For just that one kill, Angela thinks herself a bad person, let alone all the rest—and that is fine, is her prerogative.  To give voice to such a thought is impossible, however, for Fareeha has killed far more people, far more willingly than she, and she does not want to make it sound as if she thinks the same of _Fareeha_ , for she does not, not at all.

(Fareeha is, in fact, a far better person than she, in Angela’s own eyes, is the sort of person who is worthy of love, of admiration, is fundamentally _good_ and unselfish in a way Angela fears that she herself is not, will never be.  So Angela cannot speak of this, to her, for to make Fareeha believe even for a second that she is somehow unworthy in Angela’s eyes would be wholly unacceptable to her.  Enough people have doubted Fareeha, enough people have already decided that she does not live up to the impossible legacy left by her mother, and refused to see her for all her own merits, and Angela will not be a party to that, not if she can avoid it.  She will stay silent, will not try to do the impossible, and to put into words what she is feeling, will not try to push through the guilt and the shame because even if she could—even if so doing meant ridding herself at last of these demons—it would not be worth it, to her, if it meant potentially hurting Fareeha, who is so much better a person than she herself could dream of being.)

Even if she could, somehow, find the appropriate words to say to Fareeha to express what it is she is feeling without seeming to condemn her friend, and all of their colleagues, she does not think she could make herself say them.  At times like this, when Angela feels too much, too deeply, she struggles to say anything at all.

Fortunately, Fareeha knows this about her already, and seems to understand.  They have never discussed it, but it might be better that way, a quiet unspoken understanding.

After all, giving voice to other unspoken understandings between them has not gone so well.

(But they _have_ done well with not speaking.  Angela does not know why Fareeha is angry, on the anniversary of Ana’s death, does not know why that anger is specifically directed towards Ana, of all people, knows only that Fareeha is unwilling to show that emotion in front of anyone else, feels forced by all their comrades to play the part of the dutiful mourning daughter, and Angela, by not holding her to that standard, by allowing her to be angry and never asking _why_ she is so, has done more for her than she could have if they tried to discuss the matter.  There is freedom, in silence.  Freedom in secrets.  When they kept things that way between them, things were far, far easier than they are now.)

After a minute of silence, Fareeha asks, “Do you need anything?  Food, water?”

 _No_ , and no again. 

Except, perhaps, for Fareeha to sit just a little bit nearer her, where the heat from her body might seep into Angela’s own, and maybe a little bit of her radiance, her inherent goodness, would rub off too.

No, Angela neither needs nor wants anything, in a moment like this, other than for the distance between them to be closed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so hopefully this explains a little bit more angelas decision making/why she isnt exactly wanting to be out. went back and forth abt including... a certain paragraph... but i asked skitch's opinion and they said to leave it in so here we are. idk, its reality, and i dont think it was particularly gratuitous given there was literally no detail, but yeah. anyway!
> 
> they are... getting closer... to figuring this out. bc obviously neither of them is at all happy to just be friends, even if they are very good friends. so... soon that will be resolved, they hope. LMAO
> 
> hope ur day was great. if u wanna see a video of my gfs cat purring like a little white noise machine hmu on twitter @euhemeria
> 
> and as always, lmk ur thoughts!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YALL i fucked up last week and uploaded the chapter minus 1k words so like... if u read that chapter on or before 3/11/2019 i rec u go back and reread it bc itll make more sense. whoops???
> 
> anyway, heres this weeks chapter

To say that Fareeha is a person with high expectations would be an understatement.  Always, she has wanted to do the best, to be the best, has held herself to the highest standard and expected those around her to do the same.  Organizations, to, she has not spared, demanding excellence from any group with which she works, and being unwilling to serve any cause she thinks is somehow wanting.

That she has always had high expectations in relationships, too, should be no surprise.  It is not, she thinks, unfair.  After all, she does not demand any more than she is willing to give, and furthermore, does not think she would be happy in a relationship with someone who was not also a perfectionist.  Surely, they would not have patience for her, her strict way of doing things, her requirement that everything be _just so_.

Why, then, is she now considering whether or not a compromise might, in this one case, be worth it?  What makes Angela so different?

Never before would Fareeha have entertained the thought of a relationship in which she could not be out, could not be open about her identity and her lived reality, never would she have imagined that for _anyone_ she would have considered anything other than being completely open about her relationship status and sexuality, but for Angela, now?  For Angela, Fareeha is considering it.

That troubles her.

If she would give this, what else would she give?  What else would she compromise?  Does this speak to her connection with Angela, or is it, instead, a sign that, since achieving her dream and joining Overwatch, if only the Recall, her formerly uncompromising principles have begun to become less solid. 

To say that thought scares her would be an understatement, but it could happen to her, could it not?  It happened to Ana, once upon a time. Before Overwatch, Ana did not like to kill, did so only to protect, and thought that she would keep doing so, would kill only those who were an immediate danger to others, but as time went on, she killed more people, and more, became more proactive in so doing, and killed people who had yet to commit the sort of actions which would have necessitated as much, began to do so impersonally, signing off on orders that would see people killed without ever herself being at risk.  To Ana, this killing became a perversion of what once she had stood for, and that drove her to the breaking point, thinking about how she killed to protect her child, once, and now killed the children of other women.

Fareeha does not want that for herself.

All her life, people have told her she is like her mother.  On the worst of days, it has been an insult, or an accusation—that she does not measure up—but even at the best of times, they tell her, _You’re just like Ana,_ and increasingly, Fareeha fears that such is true.

(Angela, of everyone, is the only person who seems to see Fareeha as a person wholly her own, not some extension of her mother, but a person all to herself, not doomed to repeat Ana’s mistakes or required to match Ana’s legacy.  Spending time with her is therefore a great relief, an oasis, a break from what the rest of Fareeha’s life has always been like.)

Will Overwatch do to her what it did to her mother?  Will it break her, force her to compromise her principles and herself until at last it seems acceptable to do things which once she would have decried, would have despised?

Probably, it will not, because unlike Ana, Fareeha knows this may be coming.  Unlike Ana, Fareeha is vigilant, is always on her toes in the field, has not the help of a spotter, who is meant to protect her, to warn her of upcoming danger.  Fareeha is reliant only on herself.

And what she tells herself is this: any deviation in her previous ways, any crack in the foundations of her beliefs, is a serious sign, an ill omen of what is to come.

Yet, despite what she has told herself, to compromise for Angela does not feel so bad.  As a matter of fact, it feels _right._

No, Fareeha will not be closeted, not now, not ever, but if Angela wanted something less, wanted only for Fareeha to not discuss their relationship with strangers, to not post about it online, then maybe…

_Maybe_ that would not be so bad.  Maybe Fareeha could live with that.  Maybe it would not be a fundamental betrayal of her identity, and Angela’s lips on her own would not taste of shame.

Maybe.

It is not something Fareeha has ever considered, what it would be to live a sort of half-open life, to keep a part of herself hidden not out of shame, or fear, or because she is not happy with her lover, proud to be with them, but because some people value privacy, instead.

(Would it be privacy, though?  Fareeha does not know.  Angela did not give a reason for staying closeted, other than to ask why others had to know, and it could be that she does feel shame and that—that Fareeha knows already she could never live with, not ever.  She will not be someone’s dirty secret, will not be someone to be ashamed of.  She knows her own worth and it is far, far higher than that.  If all Angela wants is privacy, Fareeha might be able to accept that, but any other reason?  That would not be fair to Fareeha, who could never be ashamed of Angela, not ever.)

As long as she could be out to her friends, to her family, as long as the people in her life who truly matter could know about Fareeha’s relationship, she thinks that it is something she could tolerate, to keep quiet in certain other ways.  As long as she did not need to hide herself entirely, or from those she loves, Fareeha thinks it could be tolerable. 

Tolerable is not happy, tolerable is not perfect, tolerable is far, far from her exacting standards.

But maybe, tolerating one thing would make her happier in the long run.

If Angela were anyone else, such a thought would not be one Fareeha would entertain, even for a moment, but for Angela… for Angela, it seems almost as if it would be worthwhile.

Almost.

But she does not know whether or not Angela would be amenable to even that.  Certainly, Angela’s previous response to Fareeha suggesting that other people would know that they are in a relationship would seem to indicate otherwise.  While Fareeha may be willing to compromise, for Angela, may be willing to consider it, there is no circumstance under which she would submit to being closeted entirely.  To do so would make her deeply unhappy, she knows already.

More importantly, perhaps, it would doom any relationship before it began, for Fareeha knows she could not live like that, hiding herself, not for long.  Although she could learn to keep quiet in front of strangers, she could never lie to her friends, and it would involve lying, the two of them hiding a relationship, because surely the people whom they work with _must_ know by now, that there is something between them.

For now, Fareeha can truthfully say that they are not together, can shake her head and pass off her response to their jests with—genuine—longing, can say that Angela and she cannot be, and they may make of that what they will.

(Erroneously, most of them assume that Angela is straight, or that one of the two of them will not date coworkers.  Both cases are untrue, but Fareeha thinks it does no harm to allow them to believe that, it is not an outright lie.)

But to state, if they truly were dating, that such was not the case?  Fareeha could not lie like that, even were it her wish.  Fareeha is, frankly, a terrible liar, and knows that she could not make a one of them believe her.

She knows, too, that if they catch her in a lie like that, it would do more harm than just making her seem ashamed of Angela, because it would seem, then, that Fareeha does not trust them, and on the battlefield, trust is everything.  If her fellow soldiers do not trust her, and she them, all their lives are at risk.

No relationship is worth that, the lives of her comrades.  No lie is.

(No lie save the one she finds herself trapped in already, for her mother, the myth that Ana is dead, was killed in action, when in reality she has abandoned them all to go play vigilante.  That truth would hurt the morale of her comrades more than anything, Fareeha thinks.  And still, she hates her mother for forcing her to perpetuate it.  She _hates_ her.  And that scares Fareeha, for if she can learn to hate Ana, whom she once held above all other people, then surely she could learn to hate Angela, too.  No lie could be worth that, be worth losing Angela in all ways forever, as such resentment would cause her to do.  So she will not lie for Angela, not like she lied for her mother, will not allow the creeping resentment that results from such an act to tear the two of them apart from one another, not when she loves Angela so much, values so much what it is they have between them, even if only as friends.)

Fareeha then finds herself in a rather difficult position, knowing that what she is doing is right, and ultimately the best for her happiness, but finding that, despite that, she is presently quite _un_ happy. 

What would she change, had she her way?  It is impossible to say, for the only answer—that Angela would be out—feels so very wrong to her to even suggest.  Despite Fareeha’s own belief, very deeply ingrained and strongly held, that all people should be out, and that were such the case, the world would be better for it, because those with prejudice would be forced to acknowledge that there are far too many people unlike themselves to shun _everyone_ , she knows she cannot force this upon anyone.

For some, being in the closet is a matter of personal safety, and that, she can respect—must respect.  To ignore as much would be not only callous but dangerous.

That Angela does not seem to be such a one does not remove her right to privacy, and does not mean that there might not be something which Fareeha does not know.  For all that she and Angela have immense respect for one another, for all that they are more open and vulnerable with each other than they are around anyone else, they still have their secrets.

(Fareeha’s are probably larger, she knows.  That her mother is alive is a deception she fears that no one will forgive her for, when it is uncovered, but until such a day comes that it becomes relevant— _if_ such a day comes—she will hold her tongue, she must.  Ana’s secret is not hers to reveal, even if it should not either be hers to keep.)

For the most part, their pasts stay in the past.  Neither of them wants to dwell on what haunts them, on the pain they have endured.  When one of them requires comfort, the other gives it, no questions asked, but is willing to listen if the other decides to speak, and that seems reasonable enough an arrangement, to Fareeha.

If Angela has some reason to want to be in the closet beyond privacy, something rooted in her history or in trauma, Fareeha has no way of knowing that, and so she will not push Angela to reveal anything she does not want to, will not even suggest that Angela ought to explain herself.  What explanation she has received already—that Angela says _no_ ought to suffice.

A no is a no, as simple as that.

Just as Fareeha could accept a complete rejection from Angela, months ago, when Angela said that she was straight, and before Angela herself decided to walk back on that, she can accept this, now.

But Angela, too, must accept this no from Fareeha, that she will not be able to pursue a relationship with someone who is in the closet. 

Thus far, Angela seems to understand, even if there is a longing there, in her voice, in her eyes, when they are alone the two of them, even if there is a weight between them now that never existed anymore, even if certain sentences that ought ot end with a period seem instead to trail off, and Fareeha wonders, had they not ended in ellipses, where they might have gone.

Such thoughts are dangerous, such _longing_ is dangerous, for wanting that which she cannot have, and which she has professed to not want, is something very close to compromise, to a weakening of her principles that she fears.

But it is so very, very hard not to think about, the what ifs.

What if Angela offered to compromise, for her?  What if she offered to compromise instead?  What would happen, then? 

She cannot know, because it is a question she is unwilling to ask, a scenario she would be unwilling to entertain, attempting to convince Angela to come out, to _persuade_ her.

Such a thing, when there is a promise there, unspoken, _If you do this for me, then we can be together_ , seems too much like coercion, and that—that more than the principle of wanting to be out is something Fareeha considers an inviolable ethic, that she not do such a thing.  To do so would be cruel, and any relationship built on such a foundation would be unhealthy.  If there were negative consequences to Angela coming out, how could she not, then, blame Fareeha?  How could she not grow to resent her?

(None of this even begins to take into account the fact that, if Angela comes out for her, and they find themselves breaking up due to any circumstance thereafter, Fareeha does not know how she could forgive herself for the consequences of such a decision, and such actions.  What would she say, if Angela were to suffer for such a decision, and they did not even stay together?  How could she ever justify the sacrifice she would have asked Angela to make?  Fareeha could not tolerate such a thing—and might, as a result, feel trapped in the relationship, if she ever wanted to leave, as if she had asked too much already to ever go back.  It would not be fair to either of them, to pursue a relationship under such circumstances.)

A relationship between them would be impossible, if Fareeha would have to ask Angela to come out, but the longing lingers.

It lingers, and it lingers, and it lingers, but it does not fester, like a wound, only grows and aches and swells within her, when the two of them are alone, and Angela looks at her just so, or brushes an errant lock of hair from Fareeha’s face, so very tenderly.  It does not become painful in a way that is toxic, that makes living like this hard, for Fareeha, that makes her feel negatively towards itself, but rather it aches in a way that is almost soothing, a familiar _wanting_ that is not bad, is not wrong, is only impossible.

(But when has Fareeha let the impossible stop her?)

Time heals all wounds, so Fareeha has been told, but Angela taught her otherwise, told her that some injuries never fully go away, are always there, and can be felt still when a stressor is present, the aching of joints before the rain.  That is what this has become, for Fareeha—not gone, not entirely, nor truly lessened, either, still very present, but only under certain circumstances.

And like so, her longing will remain, unless something is to change.

Of this, Fareeha is certain. 

(Angela must be, too, for why else would she have said that to Fareeha?  It is not like her to be so indirect, that is true, but the timing was such that despite the metaphor, her words felt pointed as ever.  They are both of them wanting, and waiting, and powerless to change anything.)

One day, perhaps, Fareeha will grow accustomed to the ache, but she knows that, should things continue on as they are, she will still feel it, on nights like this, with the two of them alone, their touch just on the wrong side of intimate, for what they profess to be to one another, and their words just a tad too vulnerable.

It is on such a night, Fareeha unable to sleep, and Angela unwilling to, that Fareeha finds herself presented with a very sudden, and very unexpected, offer.

For the most part, things on that night are quite ordinary.  Yes, the two of them are sharing a room, here in Ecopoint: Qinnquadalen, but it is nothing they have not done before, and it is not as if they are sharing a bed.  Instead, they are both of them on small cots on opposite sides of the narrow room they have been assigned to share for the week, so close that if they wanted to, they could reach out and touch one another, Fareeha lying down and Angela sitting facing her, feet on the bed and back leaned against the wall.  There is silence between them, and darkness, too.  Like this, it is hard for Fareeha to ignore how very close they are, but how far apart they have been made to feel, in recent weeks.

And Angela must feel that, too, because it is she who breaks the silence.

“I _am_ sorry, you know,” says she.

“Sorry?” Fareeha asks, sitting up, because it catches her off guard, and in truth, she does not know what Angela has to be sorry for; the two of them not being compatible is ultimately a blameless thing, even if she wishes it were not the case.

A little affirmative hum “For having gotten your hopes up,” says she, “I should have known that it wouldn’t— _we_ wouldn’t…”

The sentence goes unfinished, but Fareeha knows what Angela means, for she feels it, too.  She, also, should have known better than to believe that they would work out, should have not let herself think that this would end any differently than it has—such is not the way of things, and it never has been.  Neither of them are particularly fortunate people, and everything Fareeha has, she has fought for.

(If she could, she would fight for this too, but she knows that she cannot, that the only avenues she has of doing so would not be right, would not be fair to Angela, would only end in tragedy.  Some things are worth fighting for, it is true, but sometimes, too, the cost of fighting is too high.  Fareeha has too often seen that firsthand.)

So it makes sense that this would not fall into place, not how she wants it to, but still, it stings, for she wants nothing more than for things with Angela to work, for the two of them to be happy.  Reaching across the space between them would be so easy; she would not even have to sit up, could simply extend one arm—the flesh one, this time, not the prosthetic, and she could brush her fingertips against Angela’s.  In another time, in another place, that might be a comforting gesture.

Here, it could not be so.

“I know,” says she, for lack of any other way to express what it is she is feeling, because she _does_ know, shares the sentiment.  She is sorry not for having tried, but for the hurt that having done so caused.

There is silence, and Fareeha sticks on that thought, that she would go through this hurt again, only so that Angela could know that she is loved, that she is worthy of it, that Fareeha would like for her to be happy, to know that no matter what she may think of herself, after Overwatch fell, she is still very much a good person, one who has helped the world, and done far more good than harm.

Fareeha would try it again.  It has helped her, too, to know that Angela has feelings for her, to know that even if she cannot reciprocate, Angela has not left, that things between them, although changed, have not truly grown more distant.  Thinking about what it would mean to have someone leave after her mother’s death terrified her and she knows, now, that she would survive it, and knows, too, that there are people who will not leave her, people like Angela, who even when they have no need to stay, are not offered anything for their trouble, are hurting for it, still find her worth spending time around.

She cannot put that into words, for Angela, can hardly put it into words for herself, even knowing the truth of what happened to Ana, even knowing how she suffered for it.  There is no way to address what it is she is feeling, with the weight of that secret pressing down on her, and no way to explain how that aversion to secret has impacted her willingness to be with Angela, given that she is closeted, but she wishes, now, that she could.

How could she not wish such a thing?  How, when Angela is right there, and so obviously hurting, so obviously wanting?  How could she ever begin to explain that really, this has meant so much to her, even if it all came to nothing, and that she thinks that no matter what happens, no matter how long their friendship lasts beyond this, Angela’s unconditional acceptance of her, even at her weakest, her most conflicted, will always have meaning to her?

How, other than to say this, “I’d do it again, though.”

This confuses Angela, Fareeha can see it in the way that she shifts, even if her expression is not visible in the dark of the room, the only light what seeps through the doorframe from the hall. 

“Would you?”

“Yes,” says Fareeha, and if she doubted it before, then saying it has made it clear that it is true.  She would do this again, she would, would feel this pain if only to know that she can still be worthy of friendship, of that sort of love, when she cannot give what someone truly wants of her. 

(Since she learned her mother was alive, that has been haunting her, that fear, that if she does not do things the right way, fulfill people’s needs in the right way, then they will leave her.  She was not the sort of daughter that Ana wanted, and so her mother was able to leave her behind, able to die and to not contact her, able to pursue a new life without Fareeha in it. That Ana wrote to her afterwards neither erases that pain nor diminishes it.  To be loved, then, now, even knowing that nothing will come of it, when her mother stopped talking to her after she enlisted, when she _died_ after Fareeha attempted to join Overwatch—it means more than she realized it would, going into this.  It is the type of total acceptance she has not known in her adult life, not from the people who matter to her most.)

There is a considerable pause, before Angela speaks again, and for a moment, Fareeha wonders if she has fallen asleep there, sitting up.  It would not be the first time such a thing has happened.

“I don’t know if you’re hopelessly romantic, or just very stubborn,” Angela finally says, but her voice is thick with emotion when she says it, and if Fareeha did not know better she might think Angela were crying.

(Of course, Fareeha does know better.  If Angela were crying, she could hear it from here, because Angela is not the type to do anything by half measures, and when she cries she _sobs_ , is practically hysterical.)

In truth, Fareeha does not know either which she is, and says, “I might be a bit of both.  But you’re stubborn, too.”

No argument from Angela is forthcoming, “I suppose I am,” says she.  “But I can compromise.”

“Can you?”

Fareeha does not mean for it to sound like a challenge, she does not, but that is how the words sound, and they hang between them, then.  It is too late, by the time Fareeha realizes what she seems to be implying, to take the words back—all she meant to say is that Angela can be quite stubborn in meetings, like the one they had this morning, bout the use of deadly force in stealth missions, but instead it sounds like she was implying something entirely different, like she wants Angela to compromise herself, for Fareeha, like she wants for Angela to meet her halfway on something she never would ask for.

And she cannot say she does not want it, for she does.

More than anything, she wants Angela to say yes, that she has rethought this, too, that she would be willing to come out, for Fareeha, that the two of them can be happy together.

(More than anything, she is afraid that Angela will say that, and will live to regret it.)

“What would it mean to you,” Angela asks her, “If I did?”

It is obvious to what she is referring—and it is not their argument earlier today. 

What Fareeha should do, now, is lie.  She should say that it would not change anything, because they have already chosen their path, or she should say that it does not matter if Angela does so, because she is ready to move on from all this—but an unwillingness to lie is precisely why she could not be in a relationship with someone closeted in the first place.  No matter what she says, here, it will be the wrong thing, for to tell the truth would to be to potentially lead Angela down a dangerous path, so she chooses the option most natural to her, the truth, “Everything,” says she, but, before Angela can get her hopes up, can say anything else she might regret, “But you shouldn’t.”

“I shouldn’t?”  No silence, this time, no waiting, Angela’s answer is immediate, and confused.  “Whyever not?”

“Because,” Fareeha starts, stops, pauses for a moment to consider.  “Because if you’re doing this for me—”

“It wouldn’t be _just_ for you,” Angela cuts in, “It would be—”

“—Even if you’re _partially_ doing this for me,” Fareeha clarifies, “I don’t think I could live with the guilt if you regretted it.”

That stops Angela. 

“Oh,” says she, and then, “And if I decided to do it for myself?”

As much as Fareeha has been wanting to hear those words, she knows what she must ask next, “Have you decided that?  Before now, that is?”

“No,” Angela admits, “I hadn’t considered it before a few minutes ago.”

“Then it doesn’t matter,” Fareeha says, “I don’t want you to go through that for me, because if you do, and it hurts you—that’s my fault.  And you can say now you won’t blame me, but you might and—and it wouldn’t be healthy, would it?  Us living with the knowledge that you did something like that for me, the pressure that if we don’t work out, then you’ll have done it for nothing?”

“It wouldn’t have been for _nothing_ ,” Angela argues, “It would have been for us both.  For trying to be happy, for once.”

“I’m still not comfortable with that,” Fareeha says.  “I don’t even know _why_ you’re in the closet, so I can’t—I can’t ask you to come out, for me.  And even if its for us, I’d feel that guilt, because I’d be a part of _us_.”

Dimly, in the half light, Fareeha can just barely make out as Angela brings her knees closer to her chest, “And if I don’t know how to explain it?”

Now, Fareeha does reach out, leans over into the space between them and puts one hand on Angela’s knees, calmly as she can and says, “Then you’re not ready, yet.  And that’s okay.  If you think—if there’s a chance that you’ll change your mind on this, I’ll wait.”

Not forever, Fareeha thinks, because she can never promise such a thing, not to anyone, for any reason, but for the foreseeable future, she will wait.  For as long as she still is in love with Angela, she will wait.

(Maybe, in the future, someone else will come along, but for now, she loses nothing by so doing, would not have been interested in seeing anyone else anyway.)

“I’ll think about it,” Angela promises.  “I don’t know if—it’s hard, to talk about it, but when I can, _if_ I can…  I’ll try, for you.”

“That’s all I could ask for,” Fareeha says, and it is true.  That Angela try, that she consider this, that she do this for herself, if at all—already, that is more than enough to ask, and Fareeha knows it.

Fareeha has always had high expectations, of everything and of everyone.  To ask this of Angela is no small thing.

But if Angela can do it, if she is willing to truly consider her own reasons for being closeted, and be open about them, about why it is she needs that—then maybe, maybe Fareeha can meet her in the middle.

It would not be a compromise, Fareeha thinks, not really.  Not in the bad sort of way.  It would simply be rising to the occasion.

If anything, that she can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmm... real progress?
> 
> maybe so!
> 
> anyway, short note today, im super tired bc life. BUT i hope u enjoyed, love u all, if u have the chance pet a cow bc as i learned today... it is healing
> 
> also pls lmk ur thoughts on this chapter!!! 
> 
> <3 rory


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO im 100% certain i wrote this months ago, and posted it, and i really distinctly remember the comments on it... and yet... it did not happen! i had no draft, i never texted skitch abt it, i never tweeted abt... etc so like I GUESS I DIDNT??
> 
> ANYWAY here it is

After experiencing Overwatch’s Fall, after learning what it was to have the public turn on them, after having everything each of them said twisted and turned into something it never meant, many former members of Overwatch have become reclusive, have stuck to themselves, rather than subject themselves to public scrutiny, allow the many to judge them for decisions, situations, that they could never understand.  To do so makes sense—no one else will ever know what it is to have been in Overwatch, and no one will ever be able to truly empathize with what it was to make the choices they did, to lose everything, as they did—and Angela does not fault those people who were changed by the Fall.

However, she is not one of them.

If she were so changed, it would make sense, would be a step towards explaining better the sort of woman she is, private to the last, unable and unwilling both to share her innermost thoughts.  It would make sense, and undoubtedly the Fall did change her, but it did not teach her to want privacy—only confirmed for her that she was wrong to ever compromise on her natural inclination to keep things to herself.

Never did she seek the spotlight, never did she want to tell anyone anything about the realities of her existence.  Always, what mattered most to her was her work.  Everything else ought to have been private, ought to have been her business.  Who she is and what she likes has no bearing on the results of her work, not to her mind.

(Or, rather, her intention does matter, insofar as intentions guide actions, but her intentions are not what the public wants to know about, anyway—that, they have already decided for her, for good or for ill.)

Once, she could be persuaded to open up anyway, to do so for the greater good, so that Overwatch might receive more funding, so that she might serve as good propaganda, so that they might gain good will.  Once, she thought that was a fair trade to make.

Now she knows that Overwatch never loved her, never loved anyone, used them all until there was nothing left, and she did not have to give of herself for it, did not have to let it consume her, subsume her, should have known when and where to draw a line, to keep for herself something.

(Arguably, her being trans was that line, in the old days, but she does not know—they never asked her, to share that.  Ana and Jack and Gabriel, one of them had mercy, then, one of them had sense.  If they had asked, she does not know what she would have said, what she would have done.)

These days, she follows her instincts, and keeps what ought to be private to herself, as much as possible.  Some things, she has offered up to Fareeha, as a friend, because Fareeha is too easy to speak to, too easy to trust, but a part of her thinks that to share anything more than she already has would be dangerous.  If she cannot keep secrets, if she has to be open, what will she have left to herself, what will she have left of herself?

Someday, this will end, as all things must, and this time, Angela will not give everything of herself, knows that she cannot, knows that she must do what is right for her, and that means protecting something, keeping it for herself and herself alone, so that when this Overwatch ends, or when she leaves it, she will still have something to cling to, something resembling an identity, will not spend years wandering, wondering what her purpose in life is, other than to heal others.  Rebuilding herself entirely was too painful, after the Fall, and she will never, ever do it again, does not think she could survive it—and knows she would not want to.

Yet, despite all this, she wonders what it would hurt, to tell this to Fareeha.  One woman is not the world, does not have the same power to take and to transform an identity, to change every aspect of Angela, and inscribe her with meanings she never intended, as the public once did.  If she tells Fareeha something, Fareeha will not own it, not in the way that people the world over took ownership of Angela’s story, of Reinhardt’s, of Lena’s, and made them into heroes, into symbols, when they should only have been people, hurting and flawed.

(They resented her, for not being a good enough woman, for not achieving enough, after they branded her a child genius, who was to save the world, and for not mourning publicly and in the right way, when people discussed her parents.  Everything she told to the world, everything they took to have meaning, somehow, beyond her lived experience, they twisted, and nothing she could ever do could satisfy the million expectations placed upon her, made her hate those parts of herself, feel that she was living her life wrongly.)

If she tells this to Fareeha, then Fareeha is just one woman, without the power to reshape Angela’s legacy, or, more importantly, the desire to.  Already, Fareeha knows Angela the woman, might love her, even.  She will not overlook Angela’s accomplishments, her humanity, her individuality, will not distort her into some impossible figure, instead knows the very human, very imperfect truth of Angela.

Still, there is that natural inclination not to reveal too much of herself, not to put too much into words what it is she is feeling.  Part of that is not ear of what will happen, if she speaks, is simply Angela liking privacy. 

Even if she _could_ come out, without it somehow being turned into some statement she is not interested in making, Angela is not sure if she would.  Why should it matter, to the world as a whole, to whom she is attracted?  Surely, it should only matter to the people she is interested in a relationship with, is only their business, whether or not she is attracted to them.  Who she wants, how she wants them—that is a private thing, surely?

Even when she thought of herself as straight, Angela has always kept her relationships private, made sure that no one knew about them, because she is simply not the sort of person who likes to talk about such things.  That will not change, not now, not ever.  Not for Fareeha, or for anyone.

But if she is dating Fareeha, then it would become something else, she knows, for she is only half of any of her relationships, and there is a different connotation to her silence, surely, if she loves another woman, will be felt differently by Fareeha than her past partners.  Less important will be the personal feelings, the idea that a person who does not want to talk about their relationships must be ashamed of their partners—which Angela has never been—and more important will be the history behind silence, in same gender relationships, the implications that such carries.  She would not be _closeted_ , in her own mind, simply because she would want to treat the relationship like all of the ones she had with men, but to Fareeha, it must surely feel the same, and she understands why, after a lifetime of having been out, and suffering the consequences of such, this would feel like a step backwards, and an unsustainable one, at that.

It is quite the problem.  For Fareeha, she thinks she would like to compromise, somehow, because a part of her is afraid that she will never love anyone again the way she loves Fareeha, is aware that, somehow, this relationship is different from many of her past ones. 

Maybe, one day, she will again meet someone who understands her as Fareeha does, whom she, too, knows how to care for, how to love.  Maybe there will be another chance like this, another person who makes her reconsider the way she has lived her life up to this point, makes her wonder if she could have more, after all, if she could allow herself to love and to be loved, and not set aside her duty, by so doing.  Maybe there will be another person who understands that her work will always come first, but that does not mean that they are not the most important person in her life—only that she considers her own life secondary to serving others.

Maybe.

But maybe not, and even if there were, Angela does not want another person, not right now, wants only Fareeha.

Some things about herself will never change.  Always, she will value her work above herself.  Always, she will need to feel that if she needs to, she can leave, can go where her duty takes her, where people most need her.  Always, she will want privacy, will prefer to keep as much of herself to herself as possible, and to live a quiet life, in the hours she spends away from battlefields and operating rooms.

Always, she will be the woman she is right now, standing outside the door to Fareeha’s quarters, considering whether or not to knock, or to leave.

Even Fareeha, even love, cannot change the woman she is at her core.

But some things about herself are not so essential, some things are habits which do not speak to the core of her being, and maybe—maybe she cannot make herself give up her work, for anyone, but she could finish up her time in the lab sooner, in the evenings, in order to come home to Fareeha.  Maybe she can never allow herself to be too tied to one place, can never promise forever, but can promise _tomorrow, and the day after, and as many day afters as I can give_.  Maybe she will always be a private sort of person, not given to public displays of affection, or to revealing too much about herself, and maybe she will always keep some things quiet, will never tell the world that she is trans, but maybe… maybe that, and loving Fareeha, do not have to be mutually exclusive.  Maybe there is a middle ground, to be found, an answer where she does not have to feel that she is sacrificing anything, is giving any more of herself than she is comfortable with.

Maybe.

Nothing, however, will happen until she speaks to Fareeha about this, nothing can.  But what can she say?  She does not know, yet, what that middle ground would be, where she does not feel like she is being forced to be too pen about herself, about her life, and where Fareeha does not feel as if Angela is ashamed of her, does not think that she must censor herself, but hide who she is by association.

In a perfect world, Angela would come to Fareeha with a definite answer, a way to proceed, as she sees best, would know what it is she is willing to give, that they might be together, and what she would ask of Fareeha in return.  She would like for there to be a neat answer, so that she might give it.  However, there is not one, and she knows, too, that she cannot decide alone what the way forward for them is.

She has to talk to Fareeha about this, has to let her have her say.

So it is that Angela finds herself here, now, gathering the courage to knock.

Fareeha asked her not to do this for her, to only be willing to compromise for herself, because she is afraid of what it would mean, if Angela did something she did not want to, and later came to resent Fareeha for it, is afraid of Angela hurting herself in the process.  It is a reasonable fear, Angela thinks, because, although Fareeha does not know it, she _does_ blame Overwatch for having compelled her to share that which she did not want to, and for the impact that said vulnerability has had upon her life.

But she does not want this because it would make Fareeha happy, does not even want it, in truth, only so that she and Fareeha can be together.

For this to be acceptable to Fareeha, she would have to want to discuss this matter for herself, and now that she thinks about it—she does.  Even if she does not want to tell the world she is gay, she does want to talk to Fareeha about why it is she is uncomfortable sharing these things, not because Fareeha asked that of her, but because she wants to know Fareeha, and be known by her in return, wants, more than anything, to feel understood.

If, even after this conversation, they feel that a relationship between the two of them would be unwise, Angela does not think that she will regret having said any of this, having told Fareeha just why it is she is so uncomfortable with vulnerability.  Fareeha is not Overwatch, Fareeha is not the public, Fareeha is not anyone who would seek to use what Angela tells her, to make her into a person that she is not.  Fareeha is only someone who cares about her, who loves her in a way that Overwatch—an organization, not really a family—never could.  To be open with Fareeha is not to surrender a piece of herself, is not nearly the same.

Still, it is difficult to do this, even knowing her intention beforehand; she did not mean to tell Fareeha, the first time she ever was truly vulnerable in front of her, that she would not be able to come to dinner on that day for she was busy with mourning, in the traditional way.  The words just slipped out, on their own, as if something were compelling her to say them, some force outside of her control, because Fareeha is so very easy to talk to, to confide in, to trust, and the more time the two of them spend together, the more Angela realizes that she _wants_ someone she can trust like that, someone who can trust her, too.  She wants to be able to be open, to be free, wants to be able to allow herself to love and to be loved in return.

(She has Jesse, she knows.  He is her best friend, and he has been, for decades.  If she wanted to, she could tell him anything, and he would not judge her.  She knows this.  She knows this, and yet—they knew each other, before the Fall, went through that, together, and it changed them both.  The ways in which they responded to that, the way they treated one another afterwards, nearly completely out of contact for years—it cannot be erased, and so there are some things she does not know how to tell him, anymore, things she wants to be able to talk about, with someone.)

But she has never made such a decision consciously, has never decided beforehand that she is going to confess something to Fareeha, has only spoken when it feels natural.

This is different, this decision she is making.

But maybe, different is not such a bad thing.

She knocks.

She knocks, and she waits, and she tries very hard not to second guess herself, as she does so, because she wants to do this, she does, not only because she wants to be able to have a future with Fareeha, but because she wants to be able to share those parts of herself with someone else, wants Fareeha to continue to be able to feel that she can confide in Angela in return.

Closeness such as they have had requires vulnerability, on both sides, requires that they continuously rededicate themselves to that principle, even when it is difficult, even in times like this, and no matter what comes of their relationship, Angela wants that closeness to remain, wants Fareeha in her life in any way Fareeha will have her, wants to be able to continue to help Fareeha, as Fareeha has helped her, to be happier, to be healthier, to feel more whole.

So this is worth it, it is.  Is worth the pain that accompanies honesty, sometimes, because the comfort that they take in one another, the relief of not being alone in everything, any longer, and the feeling of being able to help each other, more than outweighs that.

Fareeha opens the door.

It is not late, not yet, and Fareeha was not sleeping, clearly, her hair still beaded, but still, she seems surprised to see Angela there, and must pick up on Angela’s anxiety, because she asks, “Is something wrong?”

“No,” says Angela, but she does not want to elaborate, here in the hall.  Unlike herself, Fareeha sleeps in the same hall as almost all of the other agents, and it would be all too easy for someone to accidentally overhear this, if they stay in the open.  “Do you mind if I come in?”

“Not at all,” Fareeha says, stepping back to allow Angela into her quarters, “But—are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”

This time, when she asks, the door is closed.

“Nothing,” Angela insists, again, because even if she is anxious, it does not mean that this is something bad, being more open, is only difficult, for her, a change.  “It’s only… Can we sit down, for this?”

“Of course,” Fareeha says, gestures to her living area, which, unlike most on base, is actually furnished with a pair of armchairs Fareeha brought with her to Overwatch, rather than furniture that was simply left on base when the old Overwatch ended abruptly.

“Thank you,” says Angela, taking a seat in the chair she knows Fareeha likes less.

Opposite her, Fareeha sits too, but she does not let herself be swallowed in the chair, as she normally does, does not sink into the cushions, but instead sits on the edge, back straight.  Silence, for a moment, and then, “I don’t mean to rush you,” Fareeha says, “But I’d really appreciate it if you would tell me what this is about.”

Perhaps even more so than Angela, Fareeha likes to _know_ things, does not like to wait, and to sit in the knowledge that something important is going to happen, but be left unaware as to what.  This, Angela understands, and is used to, so she ought to have said something before.

“Sorry,” says she, “It’s about us.”  Undoubtedly, that will not be much of a comfort, given the situation.  “I wanted to tell you that… I’ve been thinking about it, and,” she notices that she has a hand in her hair, twisting it around a finger, and consciously forces herself to stop, “I’m not sure if I’m comfortable with coming out, and I don’t know if I ever will be,” Fareeha opens her mouth as if to reply, but she keeps going, keeps talking, because if she stops now she does not know if she will be able to start again, “But that doesn’t mean that—when I said I would compromise, for you, you said not to, and I’m not.  I’m _not._ But you also said that I couldn’t possibly be doing this for myself, if I couldn’t even say why I was closeted.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Fareeha says, an apology of a sort, “That you couldn’t make that choice.  I meant—”

“I know,” Angela says, because she does, knows that Fareeha was only trying to protect her, to stop her from impulsively making a decision that she could not take back, “And I _also_ know why I’m not ready, yet.”

That silences Fareeha, who evidently thought that this conversation was going in another direction.  “I see,” says she, after several moments have passed, _I see_ , and nothing more. 

(It is kind of her, to withhold any judgement, to not say what it is that she is feeling, even if the disappointment is evident in her voice.  She does not want to push Angela, even now, even when it seems that the decision Angela has made is not the outcome she wanted.)

“That doesn’t mean I never will be,” says she, “But it’s more complicated than just being private, or just needing time to adjust to this.  I should have told you, before, because it isn’t fair that—I don’t want you to think that I’m ashamed of loving you, not ever.  I’m not.  I meant it, when I told you that I loved you.”

“I know,” Fareeha says, but her voice, despite its steadiness, is still sad, resigned.  “I care about you, too.”

(She does not say she loves Angela, and that is okay—Angela understands, after all, what it is to not be ready for something.)

“I wish it were simpler,” Angela says, and she does something unlike herself, then, reaches out and takes Fareeha’s hand in hers, mirroring the comfort so often offered to her, even if she knows that she is not good at this, at physical comfort, knows that is more Fareeha’s realm, but she has to _try_ , “But Overwatch—they used us, used me.”  Maybe, holding Fareeha’s hand is comforting to herself, too, because she squeezes it tighter as she continues, “It was good press, if I talked about my parents, or being a woman in Overwatch, or—or anything of the sort.  I know that it wouldn’t be the same, if I came out now, because this Overwatch isn’t the same but I’d like to…” How to put this?  “I want to keep something of myself.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m arguing with you,” Fareeha says, “Because I’m not—if you don’t feel ready to come out, that’s your choice.  But why would people knowing that we were dating mean giving something up?”

It is a fair question, because Angela knows she did not explain herself well, rarely does, when emotions are involved.

“Well,” says she, “When people know things about you—they think that they know what those things mean, too.  And then they think that they own them, think that you can be a symbol for them, or an example, or something to aspire to and I’m not—I’m really not comfortable with that, particularly when I don’t know what this means to me, yet.  I don’t want our relationship to mean something to someone else before we have the chance to decide what it means for us, and I don’t know if… I don’t know _when_ I’ll be able to make that choice.”

“That’s fair,” Fareeha says, much to Angela’s surprise.  “I wouldn’t want that either, if I’d only just realized I wasn’t straight.  These things take time.”

“Yes,” Angela agrees, “They do.  But you said that… you’d want a partner who was out?  And I don’t know if I’ll _ever_ figure out a way to—I don’t know if I’m ever going to feel comfortable, being that open about myself.  I’m hardly able to tell such things to my friends.”

Fareeha shifts in her seat, leans forwards, then, towards Angela, “You’re right,” says she, “I don’t want a partner who is closeted.  I’ve never seen the appeal in… it wouldn’t make me happy, to hide whom I love.  But, _Angela,_ ” now she moves even further towards Angela, puts her free hand atop their clasped ones, “I didn’t say you had to tell _everyone_.”

What?

“Is that not being out?” Angela is confused, now.  If telling people about them was not what Fareeha meant, then Angela has no idea what the term means at all.

“Well,” says Fareeha, “It’s one way of being out, yes, but I didn’t mean—you don’t have to tell the general public, Angela, I’m just not comfortable lying to our friends.”

 _Oh._ “Just our friends?”

That Fareeha might only have meant a select few people should know about them, and not everyone, is genuinely something that Angela never considered.  Is it not a form of being closeted, when one is a semi-public figure?

“If you wanted more people to know, I’d be okay with that,” Fareeha clarifies, “But I know you don’t, and that’s fine.  I just don’t like the idea of—if our coworkers didn’t know, it’d feel like it was a dirty secret, you know?  Sneaking around all of them.  But telling the world isn’t—I wouldn’t mind strangers knowing, but it’s hardly necessary.”

Well, it is a relief, certainly, but there is still one small concern, “And if I’m not ready, yet, to tell our friends?”

Fareeha does not move, then, does not pull back from her, but she is stiller, nonetheless, in a way that Angela can tell is born of the unpleasantness of the turn in conversation.  “Would you be, eventually?”

Would she?  It would not be so terrible, she thinks, to have them know, for they know _her_ first and foremost, know her as a person, and not as an idea, an abstraction.  They will not project onto her something she is not, someone she is not, even if they learn this about her.

But, she also does not want to tell all of them, does not want to hear Lena say _I knew it_ , does not want Jesse to think that she lied to him, all those years ago, when she told him that she was certainly, _certainly_ straight.  She does not have answers for them, yet, does not know if Fareeha is a single exception in her life, or if she has always been attracted to women, and never knew. 

(Maybe neither—maybe she has changed, and profoundly, in the years since Overwatch ended, in more ways than she ever imagined.)

So, it scares her, the idea of telling everyone, of being asked questions she cannot answer—it scares her, but she thinks that, with Fareeha at her side, it would not be so terrible.  “I think so,” says she, “But… not all at once.  I don’t want it to be—I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.”  Not that Fareeha is not important to her, but she is not comfortable with her romantic life being the object of scrutiny.

“Okay,” Fareeha says, “I think I can live with that,” and she smiles with half her mouth in a way that suggests she would be more than just _living with_ it.

Another moment, in which Angela does not know what to say, because this is actually going well, actually working, and she did not plan for that, could imagine only unhappy endings for herself.

Yet Fareeha has a way of making happy endings possible.

“Maybe we just… wouldn’t tell them?” says she.

“Don’t you want people to know?” Angela is confused, to say the least.

“I do,” Fareeha says, “Of course I do.  But maybe we can just… not hide it, exactly, but not talk about it, either, and let people figure things out for themselves.  Would that work better, for you?”

Would it?  She would be spared having to tell anyone, that way, but she would not be able to control when and how they discovered it.  But Fareeha—she would be there, too, would be able to handle half of the questions, half of the speculation, and that, Angela thinks, would make things more manageable.  Then, the conversation would be about _them_ , and not just about _her._

“I think it might,” says she, “As long as keeping things quiet in the beginning didn’t feel, to you, like hiding.”

“It wouldn’t,” Fareeha says, “I don’t think.  If that changes, I’ll let you know, but there’s a difference between discretion and a secret.”

Angela is not so sure that she agrees, for herself, but so long as it feels different to Fareeha…

“That could work, then,” says she, and a part of her thinks this is too easy, is too simple, because nothing in her life ever goes this well.

(Then she thinks: this was not simple.  Look at how long it took them to come to this.  This was not easy.  Think of what it took, for her to decide to be open with Fareeha as to why she might not ever be happy telling the public about their love.  This has been hard, even if Fareeha has done her best, every step of the way, to make it easier.)

“It could?” Fareeha sounds as if she does not quite believe it.

“I think so, yes,” Angela says, and she can hardly believe it herself but maybe this might be happening, after all, maybe they might yet have a chance to try to be together, to be happy with one another.

“Perfect,” Fareeha says, and she is fully grinning now, in a way that is decidedly neither sexy nor romantic, just excited.  That is one of the things Angela loves most about Fareeha, her genuineness, the fact that she never hides her happiness, never hides her joy, is only ever fully herself, outside of work, when it is the two of them.

For Fareeha, Angela can be open.  With Fareeha, Angela can be happy.  The world does not need to know about her love, and Angela will not force herself to be less private, because she thinks that is what Fareeha wants of her, but with Fareeha?

With Fareeha, Angela wants to be able to share everything.  With Fareeha, Angela wants to be able to be nothing more than herself, with no pretense.  With Fareeha, Angela can imagine a place and a time when it does not hurt, to be vulnerable, when it is alright, to trust, to confide in another person.

Maybe, the world will never hear of this—but do they need to?

What matters most is that the two of them are happy, and here, now?  They are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> & fin
> 
> hope u all have a happy new yr! my gf and i are Chillin

**Author's Note:**

> i had to split this fic in four parts bc i was like... HMM... and it kept getting longer/was too many topics for one convo
> 
> anyway, hope u enjoyed. if u did, thank my local cat cafe bc the fuzzy serotonin machines gave me the strength to finish this LMAO


End file.
